


The Moment Arrives (series #2):  collection #3

by sweepeaspatch



Category: Death in Paradise
Genre: F/M, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2019-08-24 13:34:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 33
Words: 27,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16641138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweepeaspatch/pseuds/sweepeaspatch
Summary: More short stories about our favourite couple.





	1. The Intern - part 1 of 9

**Author's Note:**

> Story Listing:  
> 1\. The Intern (9 parts)  
> 2\. Love Songs  
> 3\. The Valentine Card (4 parts)  
> 4\. It Gets Under Your Skin (22 parts)  
> 5\. ...WiP...

My sister gave me this idea and helped with the timeline. I had to condense it as I couldn't bear to think about drawing it out into the 6-8 weeks that she assures me it usually takes for a scheming intern to totally upset a department.

**The Intern**

Part 1 of 9

Day 1

The order has come down. All files are to be properly ordered, cleaned up, scanned, and up-loaded to ‘the cloud’. Their little police station will be dragged, kicking and screaming, into the modern world!

“Why not just burn ‘em and let the smoke carry ‘em up to the clouds?” Dwayne grumbles, remembering former D.I. Charlie Hulme’s attempts to organize the files so long ago.

“Are you alluding to the former Chief?” Richard asks, looking up from a pile of dusty folders from 1966.

Dwayne is emptying out a cupboard where items labelled ‘1991 – VERY IMPORTANT’ are now a moldering mess, “I thought he was the Chief but he wasn’t.”

Richard grins, “Why, Dwayne! That’s the nicest thing you’ve never said to me.”

Dwayne stops dumping rubbish into a liner and grins back, “Aw right, let’s not get mushy.”

Richard dusts off his hands and addresses the room where Fidel and Camille are somewhere buried or hidden at their own tasks, “God forbid! No, an intern is due any moment to handle this assignment. Please assist him in every way possible. If nothing else, to get him out from underfoot so we can return to full operations. We don’t need an outsider in here interfering with our duties.”

Dwayne and Fidel exchange amused glances, _Where have we heard this before? Just ahead of the newest D.I.’s arrival, that’s where! How things have changed… and for the better!_

The Chief continues, “I don’t want anyone upsetting the delicate balance of our team. We’re a finely honed weapon and I want to keep it that way.” The team basks in the compliment. Everyone continues digging, sorting, binning, dusting, and getting ready for the new guy.

Hours later, the intern’s arrival is announced by a discrete knock. He is a tallish, youngish, pale, stooped, lack lustre cove with dark hair and a crumpled suit, looking much the worse for wear and tear. He stumbles up to Richard and holds out a spidery hand, “I am Devon Smith-Smythe-Smith. You must be D. I. Poole of the Met. I believe you are expecting me?”

Richard shakes the young man’s hand by reflex, forgetting momentarily that he is covered in dust and not looking very professional, “Ah, of course, welcome. I am indeed D. I. Poole but no longer of the Met. I am now on permanent assignment to the Caribbean.” As he turns to introduce the team, Richard does not see the swift grimace that flashes across the intern’s face but the team sees it. They frown and regard the new man with lidded eyes.

 _So! This one thinks the Chief is provincial, does he? Willing to settle for a hick assignment like Saint-Marie? Maybe not up to the task of keeping up with modern policing?_ A quick glance at each other confirms their sudden group decision. They do not like this intern. _Yep. Let’s take the Chief’s advice and get this guy out from under foot as soon as possible!_ They nod in unison and turn back for introductions.

It doesn’t take long as the intern has already turned away to approach the filing cabinets. He studies all their hard work for several minutes then sighs, “I see my work is cut out for me. The least you could have done was get it into some semblance of order for me!”

The team’s hackles go up, confirming their opinion. The Chief steps in and takes over and everyone returns to their regular duties although with bad grace. _The nerve! What a cheeky devil! The sooner we see the back of him, the better!_

For his part, Mr. Smith-Smythe-Smith is thinking the same thing. _What a dump! What a team of clowns! The sooner I’m off this island, the better. I don’t even have to do a good job here, anything is better than what they’ve got now. How can a police station run efficiently by using the old ways?_

It isn’t until Poole returns from washing up that the first glimmer of truth appears. The man is resplendent, neat and tidy, the epitome of British sartorial grace. He sticks out like a sore thumb! The intern keeps an eye on things for a while then realizes something else. This is the perfect set-up for the oldest trick in the book. A man displaced, obviously out of his element, pining for home, missing his own kind and… Devon preens to himself… _I AM his kind! I am SOOO his kind!_

The trick he is considering has worked before with amazing results. It had gotten him out of a dead-end job in Swindon, a leg-up at his next job in Brixton-on-Stoke, and a major promotion at Henley. It will work here too, he is sure of it. If nothing else, it will be amusing and help pass the time in this backwater.

He works diligently for an hour. _Always best to start slow_ , he thinks. _Right, step one._ He straightens up from his task, “I’m gasping for a cuppa. Fancy one, Sir?” said with a capital ‘S’ and hushed reverence.

Not ‘Chief’. That’s for kids.

He sees Poole sit up a bit straighter and thinks, _That’s right, a bit of respect goes a long way, doesn’t it?_ He also sees the team members raise their heads as if connected by a single thought. _Oh, ho, they’re sharp! I’d best be careful. I’m obviously stepping on colonial toes here. No telling what little game of theirs I’m upsetting but these locals will have to accept that they are up against a master game-player. I’ll have him wrapped around my little finger soon enough and there is nothing they can do about it!_

He then notices that Poole is regarding him for a long moment. _What! There’s absolutely no reason for him to be giving me THAT look. It is just an innocent offer of tea._

Devon’s amorphous concern is set at ease by Poole’s response, “There really isn’t adequate provision in the station for a proper cup of tea, Mr. Smith-Smythe-Smith.”

“Please, call me Dev, Sir,” the intern purrs. He doesn’t see the reaction behind him but Poole does.

Richard smiles to himself, _Oh, ye of little faith. If this is setting up the way I think it is, this could be fun in all sorts of ways._ He continues, “Yes, certainly, Dev. Proper tea is hard to find here on the island. Something to do with the atmospherics, I’m told.”

Devon smiles his most obsequious smile, “I’m sure I can manage something for tomorrow. It will be my pleasure to provide a proper bit of the homeland for you. It’s the least I can offer.” Turning back to his work, he assures himself that his plan will play out just like all the others had.

The rest of the day is spent by Devon needing assistance in many matters and only D. I. Poole will do as his chosen source of sage advice. By quitting time, they are almost on friendly terms… much to the consternation of the other three ignored people in the room.

END – part 1


	2. The Intern - part 2 of 9

Day 2

Devon is waiting on the veranda when Richard and Camille climb the steps next morning. As Richard unlocks the door, Camille rolls her eyes. Devon is starched and ironed to a brilliant shine. Even his hair has been lacquered to his skull. He is every inch the proper Englishman reporting for duty. Somehow, perhaps by sheer dumb luck (but she doubts it), his tie almost matches Richard’s.

She turns to Richard to point this out with a cheeky jerk of the head but is waylaid by Devon as he smoothly steps between them and escorts Richard to his desk even going so far as to pull out the chair for him. Camille crosses her arms and watches the show. _What do you think this is, a DATE?_ She does NOT like the look on Richard’s face, not one bit, all kind of smiley and ‘thanks ever so’. _How can he fall for this fawning behaviour?_

To top it all off, Devon folds his hands and murmurs dulcetly, “And I believe I have found a solution to your tea dilemma, Sir.” At Richard’s quirked eyebrow, he continues, “Yes. I experimented for some time last night and I’ve discovered that one must begin with VERY cold water.”

“Really? Did you hear that, Camille? Our Dev is a bit of a scientist.” Devon smirks and gives a modest little nod. Camille’s blood pressure soars. Richard stands and takes Devon’s elbow in a matey sort of way, “Care to demonstrate?”

“Gladly, Sir. I brought my kit in the eventuality that you would appreciate my efforts.” Devon picks up the bag he’s brought with him and precedes Richard into the break area.

As they pass the seething Camille, Richard quirks an eyebrow at her, “Oh, I do, Dev, I do.”

Once they are in the kitchen, Camille cannot stand to watch any more. She throws herself into her work, clearing off her desk in a mad fury. The quiet conversation drifting out of the break area almost drives her to GBH but she is saved by the arrival of Fidel and Dwayne. They give the pair a puzzled look and slide on over to her desk.

Dwayne jerks his head over his shoulder and murmurs, “Twins?”

Fidel whispers, “What’s with the ties?”

“Oh, don’t get me started! ‘Our Dev’ is up to no good and Richard doesn’t see it! They are in search of the perfect cup of tea together.”

Dwayne closes his eyes, “We’re in trouble, a’right!”

Behind them, Richard ambles out with a cup of tea delicately balanced like it is the holy grail, “Ah, perfect! I would never have thought to start with ice cold water from the fridge. Thank you, Dev.”

“Most welcome, Sir.” He lays a gentle hand on Richard’s arm, “And tomorrow, if I may, I will endeavour to offer a solution to the milk issue.”

Richard sighs and settles at his desk.

Devon begins his mystical function of uploading to ‘the cloud’.

The team steams all day. It is a very LONG day, full of perfect tea and perfect manners and a perfect PEST!

END – part 2


	3. The Intern - part 3 of 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A nod to P.G. Wodehouse here, one of my favourite authors. Soldier on, Jeeves and Wooster.

Part 3 of 9

Later, at La Kaz

Over beers at La Kaz later that night, there is a war council in progress. Dwayne wants to drown the little bugger. Camille is furious and worried in equal measure. Fidel is willing to give the new guy the benefit of the doubt, “Surely, he doesn’t think he can woo the Chief away from us that easily? We’ve worked hard for two years to earn the Chief’s trust! I’m sure the Chief sees right through him.”

“Don’t be so sure, Fidel,” grouses Dwayne. “This one is an oily sneak. I don’t like him! We need to warn the Chief but will he listen to us?”

The men turn to Camille but she is lost in her own worries. Something about this intern rubs her the wrong way… ALL the way! _If he were a woman…_ Her gasp catches their attention. _I shouldn’t say anything,_ she thinks, _but…?_ She turns to them, “What if… well, what if… he thinks Richard is gay?”

“What?!” both men choke out, slamming down their beers.

“No, no, no, no, that’s…” Dwayne fumbles to a halt, thinking.

Fidel finishes for him, “… that’s just plain wrong!” He turns to Camille, “You know him best. He isn’t, is he?” His assured manner slowly ebbs as he watches Camille actually think it over, “Camille? IS he?”

She throws her hands up, “I DON’T know!! OK? Happy now? Do you really think he talks about his sex life with me? I barely know what he takes in his TEA! Other than Megan Talbot…” her voice lowers, “… and LIZ of the yellow bikini…” here Fidel fidgets uncomfortably, “… he’s shown absolutely no interest in anyone. At least, nothing that I can see.” She catches the glance between the men, “What? What has he told you? Do you know something?”

“Well, no, nothing he’s ever said… but…” Fidel mumbles.

“But? But WHAT?”

“Well, truth be told, the Chief watches YOU a lot when you’re not lookin’. Sometimes in a sad way, sometimes just…” Dwayne pauses.

“Just?”

“Like a man admirin’ a beautiful woman from afar… kind of lonesome, you know?”

“No, I don’t know! Really?” She looks even more puzzled now, “Why wouldn’t he say something?”

Dwayne heaves a huge sigh. So many years of experience and no one ever asks him for advice! “Well, put yourself in the Chief’s shoes, he’s a stranger far from home an’ he wants to go back but he meets someone here so what does he do?” He gets blank looks from his companions. He sighs again, “Look, do you think he’s the sorta man who would allow himself a fling? No? Neither do I. The words ‘casual sex’ an’ ‘The Chief’ don’t belong in the same sentence. Trust me.”

Everyone nods.

He settles back into his chair, feeling a bit sorrowful himself now, “No, he denies himself, keeps to himself an’ marks time until he can go home. No fuss, no muss, just lots an’ lots of empty days an’ nights. Then once he decides to stay, the habits of a lifetime keep him from doin’ anythin’. He’s caught in a loop an’ he can’t break out of it.”

“If only we could make him change his ways… break out of the loop,” mutters Fidel.

“Yes but how? How do we do it?” Camille asks.

Dwayne stirs back to life, “Whatever it is, it has to come from you, Camille. You’re the only woman in his life other than your mother an’ he’s sure not gonna ask HER for a date! If it wasn’t for her perfect tea, he’d run a mile in tight shoes to avoid her. She’s WAY too French for his blood.”

Fidel reaches across the table and lays a hand on top of Camille’s, “Yes, Camille. It has to be you! Can’t you think of anything?”

Dwayne barks a laugh, “Oh, I imagine she can think of a lotta ways. The question is…” he turns to her, “…will you?” He sees the answer plain as day on her face, “Mmm-hmm, I thought so.” He settles back into his chair with a sigh, “Now, the big question, will he allow it?”

They regard each other with trepidation.

The beach

At the beach house, Richard is similarly occupied… just not over his sex life or lack thereof. No, he is pondering the situation at work. He sees Devon’s schmoozing for what it is, obsequious kow-towing and blatant ladder-climbing. He’s seen it many times in his twenty-three years as a copper but the kid sure knows his craft so he's decided he’ll just put up with it until the job is done then GOODBYE, Dev!

Settling down with his book, he snorts. Ten years in a boy’s school also taught him how to deal with sycophants like this. It will be awkward, uncomfortable, and a bother but it won’t last for long and then gentle peace will descend once more and his quiet life will go on.

Besides, winding up the team will be so much fun!

END – part 3


	4. The Intern - part 4 of 9

Part 4 of 9

Day 3

Devon almost pulls off a miracle. He presents a small carton of milk and another chemistry experiment is conducted. There is much quiet chatter and clinking of crockery before it is silent again. Camille darts a look over her shoulder to see Richard cautiously sipping whatever concoction is on today’s menu. He looks puzzled. Something must be off. She certainly hopes so!

“It’s not quite right, Dev. It must be the milk. Where did you manage to find fresh cow’s milk?”

“So sorry, Sir, it is not bovine but ovine in origin. I filtered it several times to eliminate the distinctive odor. I’m afraid fresh cow’s milk is not to be had for love nor money on this god-forsaken island.”

Richard had frozen at the word ‘ovine’ but now nods and looks down into his cup, “Pity… but kudos to you for trying. Goat’s milk. Clever. You certainly think outside the box, don’t you, Dev?”

“One tries, Sir. Oh, and Sir?” A hand is laid gently on Richard’s forearm and tarries a moment too long.

“Yes?” Richard pauses, half turned away. The intruding hand slides down and away, slowly.

“The peasant who sold me the milk asked me to be sure and tell you that Richard sends his regards.”

“Richard?”

“Yes, Richard. Something about the milk being supplied by his favourite nanny?”

At this, Richard freezes again. For much longer. The teams heads all shoot up and watch their Chief assimilate this information. _It’s a wonder he doesn’t throw the cup out the nearest_ _window_ , thinks Camille.

When Richard sets the cup carefully down and turns away from Dev, he sees their gleeful faces. With a deep sigh he goes to his desk, “I will continue to take my tea black, if you don’t mind, Dev.”

“Not at all, Sir, whatever you wish.”

And another day is endured.

It is just as Richard is packing up his briefcase that Devon comes to him and announces in hushed tones that he needs much more time to complete his work properly, “I simply can not finish the work on the pre-agreed schedule.”

“Well, how much more time will you need?”

“At least three weeks, perhaps four. So sorry, Sir, but if I’m to do a proper job…”

“… then you will need an extension. I understand. I’ll speak to the Commissioner in the morning.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Dev whispers as he lays a gentle hand on Richard’s bicep. He notices the slight pause before Richard snaps his briefcase closed, nods goodbye and heads for the door. Dev allows a small satisfied smile to follow the man away, making sure his face is turned from the team.

Day 4

_Homemade cookies! Give us a break!!_

Seems Devon’s landlady is as smitten with him as Richard is since she sat up half the night with Dev in her kitchen. The cookies are a smash hit. So sad there isn’t enough to share. It had taken most of the dough to get the balance of flavour and texture just right. There is only enough for Sir.

And Sir downs them with alacrity… along with cups of perfect tea.

Things are reaching a crisis point in the station. Camille is looking up recipes on-line. Fidel calls Juliet and asks her to make her best cookies. Dwayne is fuming because he doesn’t know anyone who knows their way around a kitchen… _all these women and not ONE of them knows how to BAKE? C’mon!!_

The only consolation, Devon seems to be making great progress on the files now that Fidel and Dwayne have pitched in (totally voluntarily, mind) and are whipping files like Frisbees! Camille bites her tongue and keeps her distance else there would be a mystery murder to solve right here in the station! Three people hope like hell that Devon finishes SOON and leaves them in peace!

The fourth keeps his silence but is highly amused…

... and full of excellent cookies.

END – part 4

 


	5. The Intern - part 5 of 9

**Part 5 of 9**

Day 5

_Shoulder massage? Are you kidding me?_

Camille watches in growing disbelief as Devon almost manages to get his hands on a surprised Richard but is waylaid by a careful step in by Fidel. As Fidel and Devon lock eyes, Camille circles around and gently urges Richard to sit down at his desk and out of the way. He does so and they both watch the silent by-play between the two men, Camille being very careful to block any unwanted approach from the enemy.

Camille has never seen Fidel so intense and focused. He is NOT going to back down and Devon is NOT going to give up. Camille’s tense hands clamping onto his shoulders seems to register with Richard and he speaks up, “Fidel, why don’t you help Dev lift down those boxes of files in the back room?”

Not breaking eye contact but answering his Chief over his shoulder, Fidel growls, “Yes, sir. Right away, sir. Anything to help ‘Dev’ with his PROPER duties.”

For his part, Devon has to take his cue from Richard but does so with bad grace, relaxing his fists slowly, “Yes, Sir. It shall be done. Come, officer,” and he leads the way into the back room.

_I hope you drop those boxes right on his HEAD_ , fumes Camille! As she waits for them to re-emerge, she is interrupted in her savage thoughts by a quiet voice right below her, “All right, Camille, you can stop trying to throttle me now. Crisis averted.”

In surprise, she looks down to see her hands are still clamped onto Richard’s shoulders, squeezing like she has someone’s throat in her grasp! She leans down and hisses, “Oh! Sorry, Ssssssiiirrr.” She almost removes her hands completely but then stops. When will she ever get another chance like this? She pauses for only a moment then goes with it. Faint heart may never have won fair maid but the reverse is also true. A faint maid never wins anything! She begins slow thumb circles right into his medial trapezius while stroking the dorsal edge with sure fingers.

His head drops like an anchor in harbour and he gives a tiny sigh, “No need for sarcasm, you know.” There is a bit of a pause as she waits for developments but all he says is, “Also, a bit to the left and lower, if that’s all right with you.”

She smiles. Knowing him as little as she does, she realizes this is a huge step forward for him.

So it is that when Devon re-emerges with Fidel in tow, both laden with heavy boxes of paper, they are treated to the unprecedented sight of Richard with his head down on his arms atop the desk and Camille happily and a bit dreamily working out his kinks. After a fraught moment, they walk past to Devon’s work area but not without a quick backwards glance from Fidel with an enthusiastic head bob.

Watching Devon seethe quietly, Camille leans down and whispers to Richard, “THAT did the trick. Thank you for accepting the massage from me that you refused from him.”

Richard turns his head contentedly and it is a moment or two before he replies in a low voice, “Mmm? Oh, yes, it’s doing the trick, all right. Can you do just a little bit more?”

“Oh, you bet. I can do this until his HEAD explodes,” she growls low, pressing harder.

Richard groans softly, “… his or mine…”

Camille pauses, looking down at his bowed head, sees his relaxed acceptance and something clicks all the lights on. She smiles minutely and her hands gentle to soft caresses, “Like this? Or this?”

“Oh, yeah…” he gives out a long sigh and flexes his back slowly.

Her complete attention is now on the man beneath her hands and she does not see the look of consternation on the intern’s face as he watches this not totally unexpected development, _Oh, I see! She’s upped her game and played the ‘feminine wiles’ card. Well then, Missy, it’s time to up mine! Let’s just see which card he favours, hmm?_

Dwayne’s excited entry breaks up the stand-off and Richard leaves hot on the trail of crime once more but not without throwing a reluctant glance at Camille which she catches deftly and stores away for future thought. She stands guard at her desk and keeps an eagle eye of Devon for the rest of the day, _The little weasel! What does he think he’s up to? Richard better watch his back!_

Down in the market place, collecting statements, Richard is thinking the same thing. He realizes that timing is very important now. Unless he misses his guess (and he almost never does), tomorrow could be very interesting. In lots of ways.

More than one game is being played here.

END – part 5


	6. The Intern - part 6 of 9

**Part 6 of 9**

Day 6

Try as he might, Devon cannot seem to get Poole alone for even a moment. Camille brings Poole to work then sticks to her desk and guards the approach to the man’s desk. When she has to leave, Fidel sits at her desk because ‘her computer is faster than mine’. _Yeah, right!_ When Fidel goes for lunch, Dwayne finds all kinds of filing to do in Poole’s corner of the station. _Ye gods! How paranoid can a team be? Paranoid enough, it seems._

When Poole leaves for lunch, Devon tries to invite himself along but is told in no uncertain terms that he must finish the up-loads TODAY as his travel plans for tomorrow have already been made by the Commissioner. His extension request has been denied, so sorry, budgetary concerns, you understand. This gives Devon the fidgets. _Tomorrow? That’s too soon!! My scheme isn’t ready to spring yet!_

Devon slips out ten minutes later while Dwayne is temporarily distracted by the phone and heads straight to La Kaz and sights his quarry immediately. He’s sitting with a beautiful woman and they are laughing. _Hah! Does Camille know about this? I bet she doesn’t, the silly cow._ He settles his face into appropriately concerned lines then approaches the table.

Poole sees him coming and immediately sobers, “What is it?” The woman is quietly observing and something about her regard makes Devon a bit nervous. _Why does this unknown woman remind me of someone else? Someone who maybe knows what I am up to? Impossible. Just get it done, Dev._

“I’m very sorry to report that there are several major discrepancies in my findings. I need an hour of your time later tonight after I’ve compiled my list of problems. It will take me the rest of the day to organize. With your help this evening, I should be able to iron out the glitches and finish up tomorrow.”

This causes a total silence at the table. Devon flicks a glance to the woman. She is serene and unconcerned, probably too dim to pick up on the vibes he is trying to shoot Poole. If he has read the man aright, his next words will be in agreement.

And they are, “All right. I’m off at 6 pm. Why don’t you bring your list to my place at 7? I’m sure we can make short work of it. I can’t imagine much being beyond your capabilities.”

“Yes, Sir, thank you, Sir. I think you will discover that I am VERY capable.”

“I’m sure,” is the only response he gets back. It will have to do. The woman is watching him a bit too closely. _Time to go._ He turns away well pleased. _It is just too easy! They never suspect anything until it is too late_.

Behind him, the couple watch until Devon turns the corner and heads uphill. Catherine turns a very French look onto Richard. Richard frowns, “Catherine! Don’t give me THAT look! I get it enough at work from your daughter!”

“Richard Poole! What are you thinking… encouraging that outrageous young man in his obvious play for you? I am shocked! No, I am amazed! Have I misread you all this time? My radar is seldom wrong.”

“Your radar is not wrong. This carbuncle has been causing us nothing but pain all week. Tonight he gets his just desserts. I’ve been checking on his work history and have had several very interesting conversations with his former bosses and co-workers. He needs taking down a peg or two and a curb put on his advancement methods.” Richard pauses then adds, “I’m also having some fun with my team so please don’t tell Camille any of this.”

Catherine raises an eyebrow, “And you are just the man to teach this intern a thing or two, are you?”

“Well, partly. Another man is going to help me.”

“And who would this be?”

“You’ll hear all about it. Later. Right now I have some scheming to do and a phone call to make. If you’ll pardon me…” and he hurries off but not in the direction of the station. Catherine watches him go. Sometimes he surprises even her.

Richard returns to the station just before 6 pm for the daily debriefing and planning of tomorrow’s schedule. Once everyone is set, they all say goodnight and leave the station in Dwayne’s capable hands for the night.

Devon rushes to his room and prepares himself. He knows this dance very well by now. It’s worked every time in the past. This will be no different. He will have another notch on his belt and another superior officer in his pocket… not that he imagines he will ever need to call in a favour from THIS officer… but you never know. It never pays to let an opportunity slip through your fingers.

Besides, it will be fun.

The stiffest ones are always the most fun.

Especially after… when they know they are caught.

END – part 6


	7. The Intern - part 7 of 9

**Part 7 of 9**

He catches a cab and is on Poole’s doorstep at exactly 7 pm. He has a file under his arm but it is just for display. There are no discrepancies. In fact, he’s a little surprised that the analog files are in perfect order. Very strange for such a backwater. It can’t have been the local talent… it must be due to Poole.

It is a small bone he can throw the man afterwards... _You keep good paper! Hah!!_

At his knock, there is a short wait then the door opens and Poole greets him in his shirt sleeves, _Well, well, well. First time I’ve seen the jacket off. Maybe this will be easier than I thought._ Devon carefully closes the door and quietly turns the lock. He follows Poole through a miniature kitchen and up into a quaint and rustic room that looks right out of a play. It screams ‘beach bum’ but is much too neat and tidy to carry it off. _Oh, my god! Is THAT a tree? It is! A tree right up through the floor and out the roof…_ And there, centre stage, is an antique iron-frame bed complete with snowy white linens and mounds of pillows. Devon’s pulse begins to speed up. _Oh, it’s perfect! It’s almost like the place is staged for seduction!_ His eyes narrow and now he is totally focused on his target. _Show time!_

Poole is sitting at a low round table in the room’s centre, indicating that Devon sit across from him in the other chair. Instead, Devon lays the file down on the table and stands behind him. Poole picks up the file but before he can open it Devon gently places his hands on the man’s shoulders and the silence is suddenly very thick.

“What are you doing, Dev?” is the calm query. Too calm. This isn’t a surprise. Either Poole has been through this before or he wants this to happen. Either way, the game is won.

“I’m just doing what I’ve wanted to do for several days now but couldn’t as we had no privacy.” Devon slips his hands down to rub lightly over the man’s chest. Yes, he can feel the response, muted as it is. A few more minutes of this and it will be game over! He bends down, sliding his hands lower but Poole surprises him by rising out of his chair and turning to face him.

“I think you are mistaken in your assessment of the situation. Am I to understand that this file you brought is a falsehood? A ruse? Are there any discrepancies in our system at all?”

Devon chuckles, _Playing hard to get! Excellent._ “There are NO discrepancies. The records dating from the time of your arrival are faultless. Your handiwork, I presume?”

Poole is giving him a hard look, “You presume much. I am responsible for the records but it is my team that live up to my standards.”

Devon steps out from behind the vacant chair, “And… are your standards as high as I suspect?”

Poole is backing up, “My standards are ridiculous, according to my team.” Behind him is an open set of veranda doors.

Devon frowns, _If he gets outside, my advantage will be lost. I must keep him inside!_ “So… VERY high then. I believe you will find that I can match your standards and, perhaps, surpass them.” He makes a quick lunge and clasps Poole in a tight embrace just inside the doorway. The man stills completely. Holding him lightly, Devon smiles, _And that’s how you get ahead in this game, Richard. You lose. I win._ “And now…” he murmurs “… we’re going to play a little game that I happen to be very good at. I’ve played this game in many workplaces and it always gets me what I want. You will do as I ask else I will accuse you of leading me on and luring me here under false pretenses.”

“Mr. Smith-Smythe-Smith, are you attempting to seduce me in order to blackmail me?”

“Oh, blackmail is such a nasty word… but accurate. Now, you will do as I say… or else.” Poole hasn’t moved a muscle. His stern eyes are flashing green. _Why haven’t I noticed his eyes before_ , Devon suddenly wonders? _They are mesmerizing! Oh, this game just got a lot more interesting!_ He smiles slow and cruel, “Now, Detective Inspector Richard Poole, let’s see if you are up to MY standards.”

He is just leaning in for a kiss that he suddenly wants very badly, to seal the deal and get this show on the road, when something huge looms behind Richard’s shoulder. Right in front of his eyes Devon sees a broad swath of khaki and brass. Raising his eyes up and up and up, he is suddenly looking into the gimlet eye of a VERY official looking official. If this man was any broader, he wouldn’t fit through the doors. But he does fit. Just. And he is swollen with indignation.

“Please unhand my Chief of Police, if you would be so kind,” says a deep silky voice, soft and implacable.

END – part 7


	8. The Intern - part 8 of 9

Part 8 of 9

Devon’s hands drop, nerveless. He takes a step back. Now he is pinned by two sets of stony eyes.

The big man lays a hand on Poole’s shoulder, “So glad you called me in for this conference, my golden goose. No telling what would have happened in my absence.”

“Yes, sir. No telling at all.”

The big man turns burning eyes back to Devon, “But I can hazard a guess. Richard, why don’t you join the rest of your team out on the west veranda whilst I have a private discussion with Mr. Smith-Smythe-Smith here. We have so much to tell one another.” Suddenly there is a quiet jostling sound and three smug faces are looking in from across the room. Camille holds up a teapot. Richard flicks his eyebrows and smiles and steps smartly away, leaving Devon alone with the death star that is Commissioner Selwyn Patterson.

As Richard slips out the door, he eases it closed behind ever so gently. Not that it will help muffle the noise but more for the look of the thing. Everyone sits down and Camille pours. For the first time ever, the entire team enjoys a hot cup of tea… and the entertainment.

Richard has been on the receiving end of the Commissioner’s rants before but this exceeds that by light years. _Holy moly, can the man sandblast the hide off someone when he puts his mind to it! He was pulling his punches all those times in the past with me, thank goodness._

Fidel is hard put not to begin taking notes! Juliet will want to hear every word of it. She has been bursting with anger all week with the stories that he brought home. He closes his eyes and tries to memorize it all.

Dwayne pumps his fists and whispers, “Yes! Yes! You tell ‘im, big man!” and thoroughly enjoys himself way more than is professional but no one begrudges him the pleasure. It is surely sweet.

Camille is sitting very still, looking at Richard who is looking back. She leans in and whispers, “You took an awful chance in there. What if he’d decided to come last night instead of tonight? You would have been all alone and defenseless.”

Richard shoots his cuffs and gives her a little knowing smile, “Really, Camille. Ten years in a boys-only school did NOT leave me defenseless. I can take care of myself.” He gives her another long searching look, “Not that I necessarily like to, you understand.” He drops his eyes and fiddles with his cup.

She sits back, contemplates all the ramifications and possible meanings and picks the one she wants, “I don’t blame you. I get tired of taking care of myself too. We’re so much better as a team.”

He relaxes, smiles, flashes her a wink, “Yes, a team. Let’s discuss this at greater length a bit later, oui?”

“Oui. By the way, how did you know?” At his raised eyebrow, she tips her head towards the closed doors behind which the decibels have gone up another notch or two, “How did you know what that little weasel was up to?”

Richard smooths his tie and scoffs, “Twenty-three years a copper, you see certain patterns repeat themselves, certain sordid little dramas played out over and over again. I vowed long ago that I would NEVER be the oblivious boss who falls for the ‘new intern gambit’ but I wanted the job done so I had to put up with him… but not one moment more than necessary!”

She nods, chin in hand, looking at him with new eyes, “Mmm. So you recognized the intern gambit but tell me… how do you deal with the DS gambit?”

He folds his hands in his lap, “Oh, dear, not well at all, I’m afraid. I’m a total sucker for that play every time.” He looks mournful, just another pawn in someone else’s game… but his eyes glint.

She reaches over and places a hand briefly atop his, “So glad to hear it,” then gives him a stern look and asks, “And just how many DS gambits have you suffered through?” He makes her wait then holds up one finger. She sits back, “Oh, good. I’m SO relieved. Virgin territory then, so to speak.”

END – part 8


	9. The Intern - part 9 of 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, missed my dead-line.   
> But I'm reading this really good book!  
> Wonderful book... takes place in Paradise... just where I want to be.

Part 9 of 9

They are still looking at each other when the doors fly open and the whole nine yards of Commissioner bursts into their little world, “We are done our little conference and it has been decided unanimously that Mr. Smith-Smythe-Smith will leave immediately, tonight, by whatever means possible.” He wheels to face Dwayne who has snapped to attention by sheer force of habit, “Officer Myers, arrange it! Preferably something uncomfortable and sadly lacking in any amenity whatsoever!”

A sharp salute, “Yes, sir, Sir!” and Dwayne flies inside to usher the flayed bedraggled remnants out the kitchen door and into the Commissioner’s car that has magically appeared in the front yard.

The Commissioner then turns on Fidel, “Officer Best, I will drop you off at the station where you will expunge every sign of Mr. Smith-Smythe-Smith from its walls. Pack it all up and send it to my office in the morning.”

“Yes, sir, Sir!” Fidel barks and is gone.

Finally, the Commissioner turns to his DI and his DI’s DS. He pauses and considers the pair. Something has changed. It’s subtle but he senses it none the less. Finally he smiles and thinks, _His D.S. in more ways than one now if my finely honed sense of gossip-mongering isn’t failing me. Oh, Cecile will be SO pleased._ He lets out a deep sigh and once more places a hand on Richard’s shoulder, “I apologize whole-heartedly for not taking your misgivings under proper advisement when you first brought your concerns to me regarding Mr. Smith-Smythe-Smith. Rest assured his days of blackmailing are over! I look forward to compiling my report on his behaviour. Now, I must fly. I’m sure Dwayne has arranged something suitably awful by now.”

A quick salute and he is gone. A car door slam, a quiet rumble, and all is quiet.

Richard takes Camille’s hand, “Did you feel the whole house shake? That was earthquake Selwyn.”

She squeezes his hand, “I’m so glad he was here. I can’t stand the thought of dear, sweet, slimy ‘Dev’ beating me to the punch!”

“Oh, Camille, he was chucking in the wrong pitch. Tell me truthfully now, did I really seem susceptible to that young mans’ blandishments?”

“You know, turns out no one really knew for sure. If it hadn’t been for Megan Talbot…” He fidgets. Her eyes narrow to lasers “… and LIZ…” He fidgets harder. “… we would have had absolutely nothing to go by. As it was, we decided no. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. You’re the Chief and we’re your team. Team Poole, yay!” She smiles to let him know all MAY be forgiven if…

He smiles in relief at his reprieve, pulls her a bit closer, “Forget about Team Poole for the moment. What about Team Us?”

She takes a step nearer, “You mean us… as in you and me?”

“Yes. This has all been a bit much.” He sighs and says low, “I’ve just been marking time, really, waiting to go home but I AM home, aren’t I?” He looks to her and she nods happily. He nods back, “So many empty days… and nights… a lifetime of habit that means nothing if I’m alone.” He takes both her hands in his and says resolutely, “I don’t want to be alone anymore. Will you be with me? If nothing else, will you deflect future interns? Will you guard my heart?”

“But of course, chéri. I’ve been practicing for ages now and I’m ready to take on the job. Is there an interview? A probationary period? What’s the pay like?”

He slips an arm around her shoulders and gently guides her back through the doors into the gathering darkness within, “We can interview right now, if you like. The probationary period will most likely be waived due to the expected sterling results. As for the pay…”

He pushes the doors closed behind them.

Utter peaceful calm descends all around. The sunset gilds the beach briefly then Nature’s palette slips to lilac and mauve. A soft breeze springs up, zephyrs around the little house then ventures off into the forest. The waves recede slowly as low tide approaches, the ebbing waters revealing smooth glistening sand. The light fades to blue. Night birds begin to call. The air cools. Moonlight beckons.

Paradise has arrived.

END


	10. Love Songs

**Love Songs**

It’s another hot sultry day. The fans seem almost too tired to turn. The people beneath the fans seem almost too tired to work… but officers of the Law must never rest and so they carry on regardless.

Into this somnolent stillness the radio plays quietly. Dwayne turns it up for the newscasts and they all listen attentively but there is nothing of note. It is during the morning coffee break that the first sign of something different catches Dwayne’s eye. Well, first his eye then his ear.

Camille and the Chief stand side by side at the tiny kitchen counter. She is stirring her coffee and he is timing his tea-steeping, holding his watch up as he counts down the minutes and seconds. They aren’t talking, just standing companionably and not doing much of anything. Like always. Like usual.

Dwayne just happens to look up, just happens to think maybe he should get a cup of coffee too, when he sees something so small, so incongruous, so quick that he’s not sure he sees it all.

Camille is very still, listening, then she snips a look at the Chief, smiles small small and… and bumps shoulders with him. The Chief is still looking at his watch but Dwayne sees the man’s body sway ever so slightly with the bump as he smiles back at her. Then he drops his arm, picks up his tea, and they gently clink cups. She strolls away and the Chief stays for a moment then returns to his desk.

Dwayne makes sure his head is down and he is studiously working on papers when they pass by him. No way did he see anything or notice anything… but he spends the rest of the day watching them very carefully and he finally makes the connection.

It’s the radio. Whenever a love song comes up, she pauses and listens and smiles. Sometimes she slides a look up the room to the Chief… and goodness me! Sometimes the Chief is listening too and he smiles back but without looking up from his desk. He must have exceptional peripheral vision along with all his other amazing talents (‘super powers’ Fidel likes to call it ) (and he isn’t wrong!).

Dwayne sees it several times before he has to accept the reality of his own expert knowledge in this area. He knows what two people in love act like… and this is EXACTLY how they act! So… well, well, well. Finally and at last! He is happy for them. He can’t wait to tell Fidel but perhaps he’d better wait and make sure of his theory before spreading the news.

By the day’s end, he is certain. This isn’t the often friendly and sometimes caustic bantering and bickering that he’s used to seeing. This is calm acceptance. This is two people at rest with each other.

He joins the Chief out on the veranda as the hot sun begins its long slide into the ocean. The light is dimming down from molten gold to a restful blue and there is a promise of some relief from the relentless heat. The Chief is leaning on the railing, looking down on the town. His town. Dwayne leans his back against the railing and crosses his arms, “Nice evenin’.”

“Yes, Dwayne, very nice.” There is a long silence, then, “You’ve noticed, haven’t you?”

“Yes, Chief. Not that it’s any of my business, of course.”

“What happens in our personal lives reflects here at the station and that makes it your business, at least partly. I hope it hasn’t made you uncomfortable?”

“No, Chief. I’m happy for you… for you both. People deserve to be happy, don’t you think?”

The Chief nods solemnly, “Yes. Yes, I do. Finally and at last.”

Dwayne turns and matches the Chief’s pose, “That’s odd… I was thinkin’ the same thing a bit earlier.”

“Well, I’m glad we have your blessing. Think Fidel will mind?”

“Fidel?! He’s been hopin’ and prayin’ like mad for months on your behalf.”

“HAS he? Well, he can rest easy now. The only thing I have left to figure out is the timing.”

“Timin’ of what?”

“Oh, you know. How long before the engagement, how long before the wedding, how long…”

Dwayne puts a hand on the man’s arm, “Oh, don’ you worry ‘bout THAT, Chief! The woman usually handles all that… and judgin’ by what I saw today, I’d say you got lotsa time… 10, 20, maybe even 30…”

The Chief turns an amused eye onto him, “Yes? 10, 20, 30… what? Days? Weeks? Months? Tell me, Officer Myers, as a man of the world to a green tyro, how long do I have?”

Dwayne smiles and says very gently, “Years, Chief, you got years. A life-time, if that’s what you want.”

They both look back into the building where a woman goes through the motions of what she has to do in order to get to the thing she REALLY wants to do. Dwayne murmurs, “She’s like a vision, isn’t she?”

“Yes, she is, and I DO want a life-time. I hope we get it. Not every couple can manage it.”

“Oh, don’t you worry ‘bout THAT either, Chief. You know your own mind. I can’t see you jumpin’ into somethin’ you haven’t thought out seven ways from Sunday. Besides, I’d say your goose was cooked good an’ proper the moment she knew how you felt about her. There’s no escape for you now.”

“How perfectly dreadful! My goose is cooked and on a lovely platter surrounded by all the trimmings!” The man doesn’t look upset at all, more like he’s found his safe harbour and storms be damned.

“A smart man chooses the nicest platter he can find… and I’d say you’ve chosen a doozie.”

“Me too… but I didn’t really choose. Surely you must know that.”

Camille is closing down the office and approaching the door now. Dwayne lays one last hand on his boss’ arm, “I DO know. I’ll be off now. Think I’ll go home and maybe think things over myself. Seems like it’s never too late for a man to change his life.”

“YOU, Dwayne? Now THAT would make the island quake. Think of all the disappointed ladies! The Commissioner will be upset to learn one of our major tourist attractions is closing down.”

“Aw right, Chief, no need for sarcasm.” They smile at each other. Camille comes out. Dwayne nods at her and slips away into the dusky evening.

“What was that all about?” she asks Richard as she watches Dwayne slope off. Her hand is finally able to curl around his waist. They are safe from prying eyes in the dim shadows of the veranda.

He wraps a possessive arm around her but gently, gently. You can never be too careful when in public. “Oh, he was just giving me some advice on the care and feeding of the quixotic, exotic, and erotic.”

She gives him a long look, “And… would that have anything to do with me?”

“Oh, yes. _Homo enigma_ or _sirena_ or maybe even _hypnotica_. Although you might need a whole new genus… _Femina fatalis_ perhaps?”

She gives him a soft kiss, “You know, sometimes I have NO idea what you are banging on about.”

He returns the kiss, “I know. I do allow myself the odd flight of fancy but the important thing is that you always know what I’m feeling even if I don’t know myself.”

“Mm-hmm and I’m sensing something right now. Time to go home.”

He escorts her to the top of the stairs, “You have your own super powers, you know.”

As they step down and begin tonight’s journey to blissful peace, she chuckles, “I know… but I promise to use it only for the good of the people.”

“And that would be me, right?”

“Like the song says, ‘The only one for me is you, and you for me... so happy together.”

“You know, I never listened to love songs until today. What an education.”

“Big brains still have a lot to learn, it seems.”

“Well, this one got quite a few new ideas. Let’s experiment.”

“Oh, yes, let’s, but I’ve already learned one important thing.”

“Dare I ask?”

She gives him a very private touch when they reach the bottom of the stairs, “A little bit of you goes a looooooooooong way.”

END


	11. The Valentine Card - part 1 of 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't let Valentine's Day come and go without another DiP embarrassing moment and/or international spat, now can I? Raging snowstorm here, perfect for posting. Will post daily until complete.

**The Valentine Card **

Part 1 of 4

**He** sits at his desk practically vibrating with nerves. A quick glance at the station clock confirms the reason for his unease… _5:53 pm! Already?? Oh, god, I have exactly seven minutes to_ … he looks down to the pale pink envelope partially covered by his jittery hands… _I have exactly seven…_ he checks again… _NO! I now have six minutes!_   He begins to hyperventilate and a light sweat breaks out on his forehead.

In his heart of hearts he knows he will never do it.

 **She** sits at her desk, wondering if she should do it now or wait until after 6 pm when they are technically no longer D.I. and D.S. but merely a man and a woman who share so much. _Yeah_ _right,_ she scoffs… _we share everything except the one thing I want more than anything else._ She looks down at the pale pink envelope in her purse and decides to wait. Sometimes he’s almost human if you catch him after hours. She watches the clock.

6 pm.

She stands, slings her purse over her shoulder, looks back at him and pauses. He looks ill; pale and shaky, not well at all. She turns to him, “Are you all right?”

He stands quickly, almost clumsily, clutching his briefcase like a shield, “Yep. Yep. I’m fine.” He palms the envelope and steps manfully out from behind his fortress. He sees she is dawdling by the doorway. _Now’s the time,_ he thinks. _I’ll just hand it to her and smile and be on my way. What’s the worst that can happen?_ He pauses a moment. _Maybe I’ll ask her to join me for a late_ _cup of tea…_ but then he quails. He doesn’t want Catherine hovering anywhere in the vicinity. No, best do it now and get it over with!

He approaches the door but at the last moment his briefcase bobbles in his grasp just as Camille is reaching into her purse and… they bump into one another and there is a soft papery ‘plap’ sound. They look down. There are two pale pink envelopes lying on the floor at their feet. They stare at this then up at each other then back down to the floor.

“Well,” Camille muses, “What are the chances of THAT happening?”

He smiles nervously, stoops, and picks up the unmarked correspondence. He takes a quick peek into one, sees his card, and shoves it into his pocket. “Here,” he says, thrusting the other envelope at her, “this one must be yours.” She takes it with an odd look on her face, almost speaks then just nods and stuffs it back into her purse.

He gestures for her to precede him. They pass Fidel on the stairway who wishes them both a good evening as he ascends to begin the evening shift. At the bottom of the stairs they hesitate briefly, almost say something then bid each other good night and turn away.

They both kick themselves mentally all the way to their respective homes.

She is just mad at herself for passing up yet another opportunity to get his attention. _Oh, well_ , she thinks, _tomorrow is another day. I’ll try again. Tomorrow._

He is furious and sick with misery for missing maybe his last chance at happiness! _When will I ever get up the nerve again?_ he rages. _Yesterday, today, tomorrow… the opportunity to get her attention grows slimmer by the day! How many more chances will I get? I have to do something and soon! Any day now she could meet someone else and I’ll be left behind!_

He castigates himself all the way home, his normally restful walk full of turmoil and regrets. Once back at his house, he changes into his ‘home suit’ which is to say he removes his jacket and tie and rolls his sleeves up. He makes himself a soothing cup of tea and sits at his little kitchen counter with his envelope in his hands.

He slips the card out and regards the cover. It was what had caught his attention in the shop, a lovely tea service with two gently steaming cups of tea. A window in the background opens onto a lovely pastel English garden. White roses frame the tea pot. Perfect. Just perfect. He flips the card open and reads the inscription; ‘You are my perfect cuppa. Care to steep with me?’ He covers his eyes and despairs. _I’m just a love-sick dreamer_ , he thinks. _She doesn’t even like tea_. His eyes drop to his written note… _I’m so glad she didn’t actually see thisssss…_ His mind coasts to a full stop and he stiffens in shock.

Instead of his neat and concise hand-writing, there is something else scribbled here! He brings the card up closer and squints at it. It’s hard to make out but… he recognizes this scrawl from the many many reports he’s seen with the same chicken-scratch. With utter amazement he reads… ‘Richard, please please please be mine – C’

A loud knock slams into the door behind him and he actually jumps and clutches at his chest. His heart has leapt like a mad thing! Like a hare snared by a wire! He lurches to his feet and throws open the door, the card forgotten in his hand.

It is Camille, stiff and taut, her chest heaving as if she’s run the entire way here. There is an identical card clutched tightly in her hand.

END – part 1


	12. The Valentine Card - part 2 of 4

Part 2 of 4

His shock and surprise don’t last long. He glances down at his hand. His eyes flash with sudden realization to her hand. If he has hers then that means… He lunges but she darts back and holds her card out of reach. He lunges again and this time she has to prop a hand on his chest to keep him at bay. As he struggles to grab the card, she holds it aloft and reads it out loud for the entire world to hear, “Ahem… ‘Camille, can we please give it a go? - R’”

He stills, drops his hand, steps back, wonders if it’s too late to slam the door and pretend he isn’t home.

She props her hands onto her hips and bellows with fiery eyes, “Give it a go? That’s the best you can do? Is this your idea of romance? If it is then, Lord help me, I’m in love with a stick!”

He stutters into defensive mode, “A stick? Here now, that’s not very nice! How unromantic can you be?” Internally, his brain sits up, _What did she just say?_

She waves the card at him and nods emphatically while scoffing, “Pretty damn unromantic, it seems! Well, Mr. Tea and Roses, I rescind my card! Hand it over!” Her hand is out, palm open and insulting.

His temper flares and he sees red, “FINE! Give me mine back!” He holds his hand out, palm up.

“Gladly,” she barks and the cards are exchanged once more.

They stand in silence, looking at each other in utter confusion, anger, and thwarted hopes.

Finally, she stares down at her own card and growls, “I don’t know why I even try with you! You haven’t a romantic bone in your whole body, have you? You’re just logic and circuits and ice, good for police work but nothing else. Why do I persist in deluding myself? You can’t love me.”

He sweeps his card up to cover his heart. “I can’t?” he bleats. His brain is poking him, _She said it again!_

“No, you can’t. You prove it daily.” Now she sounds sorrowful.

“I do?” He lowers the card, “How?” He sounds completely lost.

She gestures helplessly with a limp hand, “You never say anything nice…”

He stiffens and says loudly, “Not true! Just last week I complemented you…”

“You did? When?” She perks up, hope in her eyes.

“That day you put your hair up.” He twiddles a finger at her head, “I said it looked nice.”

She slumps, her eyes dim, “You said I looked civilized for once.”

He slumps, remembering, “Oh, yeah, well, I got nervous. You always make me nervous and I end up saying the opposite to what I mean to say.” He fiddles with his card. It is beginning to curl at the edges.

She ponders him for a moment, “Oh. So… by ‘civilized’ you actually meant…?”

He blurts without thinking, “Lovely. I meant lovely.” The card is being pleated now.

She nods slowly as if she isn’t sure she should believe what he is saying, “Uh-huh. I see. Well, why didn’t you just say so?”

He studies his hands, won’t look at her, “Nervous, remember?”

She cocks a hip, taps her card against her lower lip, studies his body English which is sending so many conflicting messages, “So, I have to turn all your words 180 degrees when you talk to me?”

He nods ruefully, “Pretty much… unless we’re talking shop. Sorry.”

“Oh. Then… do you like me at all? Do you think I’m pretty?” Her eyes are now fixed and focused.

His head snaps up, his words are brisk but his eyes are pained, “Certainly not! You are my D.S. and…”

She stiff-arms him once more, pushes him back through the doorway, steps in, shuts the door, “Mmm-hmm. Ok. That was pretty clear if I turn it 180 degrees. Now, can I have my card back? The one you’ve folded, spindled and almost mutilated?” She points to his hand.

He looks down at the former card, now some sort of origami object, “Um… no?”

“Oh, good,” she scoffs and switches the cards back. She gingerly uncrinkles her card then looks to him, “Will you kindly read my card out loud, please?”

He looks at the card in his hand and blushes a deep pink, “I… I can’t. It’s too French…”

“French? It’s all English! I know my writing can be a bit haphazard but…”

His loud scoff stops her but her folded arms and searing look stills his mirth. He sobers, “Well, there’s a repetition written here that serves no purpose…”

“Serves no purpose? It serves a very real purpose! It conveys a deep urgent request that begs for compassion and understanding and maybe just a little bit of mercy.”

He looks down at the card again, “It does?” Nope. Still chicken-scratch.

“Yes, it most certainly does! Unlike the crass sentiment stated in YOUR card.” He bristles at this insult as she opens her card and reads, “…give it a GO? My god, I’m not a car, you know!”

“I know that,” he roars. “I’m not a child!”

She looks him up and down, cocks an eyebrow. He sees this, looks down at himself… and suffers a thunderous flashback! The morning she caught him in bed with the chickens! What had he said, ‘Things aren’t always as they seem.’? Yes, and hadn’t she given him the very same down and up glance? Yes, and with a tender smile too. And what had he done?? Why, looked down at himself in cluelessness, totally missed the point, shrugged like a numpty, and carried on being a bachelor!

He’d carried on being a bachelor for over another year!

“Oh!” he cries and covers his eyes. Other memories are burning across his mind now, more and more of them, comments and events that had seemed innocuous then but had huge heavy emotional portent now. “Oh,” he repeats quietly, hunching his shoulders in grief. Time! So much lost time!

Hands are soothing him, “What’s wrong?” Her voice is low and very close.

“Me,” he groans and drops his hands to give her a mournful look. “Me, I’m wrong. I’ve been all wrong about everything, haven’t I?”

END – part 2


	13. The Valentine Card - part 3 of 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Gets a bit M-ish here**

Part 3 of 4

“I dunno. Have you?”

He looks down at her card once more, “A triple repeat, almost a cry for help, and I missed it.” He throws a hand up in anger, “I missed ALL of it! Oh, I am so stupid.” He gives her a perplexed glance, “How do you put up with me? WHY do you put up with me? I’m a dunce.”

She continues to pat and sooth him, “No, you’re not… or, if you are, you’re the handsomest most fascinating dunce I know. Too tasty to be roaming about on your own. Why don’t you let me capture you a little… try to domesticate you just a touch? It would do us both a lot of good. I know it would make me feel SO much better.”

His hand has covered hers but she doesn’t think he realizes it. “Would it?” he says softly.

She sidles closer, “Oh, yeah, LOTS better.” Her heartbeat is speeding up.

He sounds a bit hesitant, “Oh, well, I suppose a modicum of civility wouldn’t hurt?”

She eases him back towards the steps at the back of his kitchen, “No, couldn’t hurt at all.”

He nods like he is trying to convince himself this is really happening, “I mean, it’s not like we’re strangers, is it?”

She eases him up one step, “No, it isn’t. We’re good friends, aren’t we?”

He takes the second step all on his own, drawing her gently up with him, “Yes, we are. Very good friends… and partners… and…”

They take the last step together.

She reaches up and brushes her lips across his. He shivers and stills as she murmurs low, “Yes, partners… and partners share, don’t they? They trust one another and share all the ups and downs of Life together.”

His eyes are losing focus. “Ups and downs…” he echoes softly.

She eases him down onto the bed. He sits slowly, blinking up at her, his hands on her hips. She leans down to whisper, “And now I will ask my question again, if you will allow?” His eyebrows go up. She recites, “Richard, will you please please please…”

“Yes,” he breathes as he reaches for a kiss. When he pulls back after a long and totally satisfying oral exploration, he murmurs in turn, “And pardon the expression but can we give it ‘a go’ right now?”

She laughs as she pulls her top off in one easy motion, shaking out her hair under his mesmerized gaze, “Are you kidding? I’m not waiting a moment longer! No way. You’re here. I’m here.” His hands are wandering her body. She stretches and flexes like a pampered cat, “I am going to take great pleasure in taking my pleasure here tonight, if you will pardon the expression.”

His voice is wistful, almost hesitant, “Here? With me?”

She stoops to nuzzle his temple. His arms go around her, “Of course with you! Who else has razzle dazzled me for over two years, hmm? Who else has kept me in thrall and ruined me forever for other men?”

Now he sounds like he suspects a trick, “Not… not me, surely?”

“It will always be you. No matter how many times you’ve broken my heart, it will always be you.”

He jerks upright, “I never meant to hurt you. Never. I just never thought… I mean I hoped but… I just never thought…”

She hushes him with a finger to his lips, “I know… or I think I know. We have a lot to talk about…”

“Right now?” he almost wails.

She pushes him down onto his back, whispering, “No, chéri, not right now. Right now I have pleasure to take… and to give.” Her kiss is hungry.

His answering kiss is becoming feral. He breaks it off just as she is feeling a trifle faint, “Camille, please forgive me if I’m not exactly a gentleman for the next few hours…”

She rears up over him, “Hours?!! Oh, merde! Someone pinch me, I must be dreaming!”

He laughs then, low and with dawning confidence, as his hands begin to gently pinch in all the right places, “As you wish, my little ‘partner in crime’.”

She is undoing buttons, “Aren’t you hot?”

“Yes, I am, a little.” His grin is heating up.

“You should learn to sleep naked. I do.” She has divested him of his shirt. “Oh, my…” is all she has time to say before she is flipped onto her back and a very potent weight slips atop her. As sensations sort themselves out on all her nerve endings, she has time for one more, “Oh, my…” before he smothers her in a soul-searing kiss that goes uninterrupted as the rest of their clothing flies off in all directions.

“Please please please…” she calls out into the night.

“I hear you,” he murmurs against her cheek. “I finally hear you and I finally understand. Camille, my Camille, finally and at last.”

He mounts.

She wails.

Furious activity prevails for quite a while.

END – part 3


	14. The Valentine Card - part 4 of 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **still a bit M-ish**

Part 4 of 4

When peace once more descends, he shifts his upper half to the side and she gasps huge draughts of cool air as he pulls a pillow under his head and settles beside her. He strokes her arm and hip, making her shiver even harder, “Are you all right?” he whispers.

“I don’t… I don’t rightly know. You… you were right to warn me! What ungentlemanly behaviour!”

He stiffens then drops his face to her shoulder, “Oh! I do apologize! It’s been so long since I’ve… well, perhaps I need to relearn my bedside manners.”

She takes his chin in both hands, makes him look at her, “Richard, my sweet Richard, you have absolutely nothing to be sorry for. I misspoke. This is no laughing matter. I spent so much time thinking about getting you to bed that I never thought about afterwards.” He settles. She pulls his head to rest upon the crook at shoulder and neck.

His hands are once more gently roaming her body. “I like this,” he whispers, “the after-time, just us, two souls slowly settling into peaceful sleep.”

She sits up suddenly, taking him by surprise, “Sleep?! Oh, no! No sleep for you, mister. I didn’t wait two years for you to nod off after only one ‘go’!” She rolls atop him, “Alley-oop! This little car is ready to race! Time for round two!”

“Round two? Surely not! I’m barely…”

Her hand darts down between them, “Oh, you’re bare all right. Beautifully bare and I’ll be exploring all your wonders very soon… but right now…”

He embraces her and laughs, “Right now… alley-oop?”

“Right!”

She mounts.

He wails.

Repeat.

Brief rest.

Repeat with a variation or two or three, at half speed, by Braille.

February 15th dawns not a moment too soon... two years late but they are too exhausted to care about that. They have the rest of their lives to make up for it.

As he sleeps in utter shagged-out bliss, she does the math and grins. She leans over to whisper, “That’s roughly 700 ungentlemanly acts you owe me, Mr. Cutey-Cakes, and I intend to collect each and every one of them… with interest!”

He stirs and rolls to face her, pulls her against him. She snugs her surfeited body into his and holds him.

Her Richard.

Her gentleman.

Her gentle man.

Idly, she wonders about next Valentine’s Day. How in the world can she possibly top this? She looks down at his serene face and thinks maybe he might have some ideas.

She sighs, closes her eyes, and passes out.

For the first time in two years, her sleep is dreamless.

Her dream sleeps beside her.

There is no need for more.

END


	15. It Gets Under Your Skin - part 1 of 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ponddipper gave me this idea almost a year ago. It pulled together several small snippets that had been hanging fire in my binder. It was also my first attempt at a longer story. It was harder than I expected.  
> Thanks to Ponddipper for starting the idea rolling. Thanks to daughter Irene who brainstormed the basic story line with me (I added all the mushy details). Phoo to son Christopher who wouldn't even contemplate the idea.  
> **I know RP's chest is pristine and immaculate. S1 E6 proved that. Cut me some slack. My brain was on fire.**

**It Gets Under Your Skin**

Part 1 of 22

He can’t sleep. There is a dull roaring noise. _Waves? Wind in the trees?_   SOME damn thing is always ruining his sleep. _And it’s too hot. Dear god, why is it always so hot!_   His head is pounding and the gravel beneath his cheek is too sharp. He turns his head but that cheek is scored by gravel too. First sand and NOW gravel in his bed! _Tsk! Typical! How is a man to rest when… when…_

He swims muzzily back to awareness. He’s face down on a dirty concrete floor. He can’t see for smoke. _Smoke. Smoke in my house?_   His brain is trying to tell him something. The comforting idea of a candle flame soothes him momentarily then he slams to full realization! He shoots up onto his hands and knees and is immediately felled by searing heat, a stabbing pain in his chest, and convulsive coughing.

He remembers now - the warehouse - the tip off. He and Camille just making their cautious way through the dark interior when… When what? A blinding flash - a gentle hot cushion of air that lifted him and wafted him sideways into a beam - then silence. The silence is giving way. Sound is bleeding back into his world and he doesn’t like it at all! It’s the growing roar of fire… somewhere VERY close. More smoke, turning black now. _Aren’t there hazardous chemicals stored here?_ his mind whispers.

He has to get out!

He flexes himself on the debris covered floor. Other than what he is sure is a broken rib, everything seems to be working. He sees tiny sparks drifting down onto his arm, tiny pin holes appearing in the fine wool. He casually brushes them off and clambers back to his hands and knees, ignoring the sharp pain in his side. He sees a hazy rectangle of bright sunlight off to his left maybe 20-30 feet away. An open doorway. Shadows are moving just beyond it. _Rescuers… come for me and… me and…_

His brain flashes in a massive white-out, _CAMILLE! Oh, my god! Where’s Camille?_

He drops to the floor and frantically scans his immediate area in the few inches of relatively clear air remaining, _Nothing! Nothing! Where IS she? Was she blown in the same direction or is she lost somewhere in this maelstrom?_  Suddenly he sees a dull yellow patch nearby. He belly-crawls desperately towards it and he is right! _Thank god for those pants! I will never disparage her wardrobe again! Not that I ever have… not to her face… she’d put me into another arm lock and THIS time she’d… Oh, god, I’m rambling! My mind is confused! I must have concussion as well! Concentrate, Poole! We’re going to die if you don’t!_

He scrambles madly to her, checks her over for missing parts. She seems intact but he hasn’t the luxury of time! He can hear and see and feel the fire feeding all around them. If they don’t get out, they will surely be caught in the imminent chemical explosion that will kill them. She is covered in little sparks too. He swiftly brushes her down then pauses at her hair. She is going to need a haircut. Patches are crisped. He can see midnight strands shriveling up right in front of his eyes. _Right! Time to go!_

Just as he is readying to lift her off the floor, part of the roof collapses with a roar in front of the doorway. He throws himself instinctively across her, shielding her as best he can.  The hungry roar of the fire ramps up and now there is a gauntlet of leaping flames between them and safety. He looks down at her once more and runs a quick hand over her face. Her hair. Her hair will catch fire. He calmly removes his jacket and gently wraps it around her head and torso. It’s the best he can do. They are out of time.

He lifts her, groaning at the doubled pain in his side. _OK, maybe TWO broken ribs. No matter, we’re out of here!_ He carries her as close to the fallen debris as he can and looks out the quickly disappearing doorway. Smoke and embers are being sucked outside, forcing the shadowy rescuers back. He can faintly make out the light blue shirts and dark pants of the two shapes outside. It must be Dwayne and Fidel. _Of course, it is! Who else would attempt to race in here without proper protection?_ He can hear them calling frantically.

Not knowing if they will hear him above the deafening scream of the conflagration, he cough/shouts, “We’re coming out!”, takes a deep choking breath, tucks his head down onto Camille’s jacketed shoulder, takes three running steps, leaps, and…

He doesn’t remember anything after that.

When he wakes, he is blind.

END – part 1


	16. It Gets Under Your Skin - part 2 of 22

Part 2 of 22

Outside, Dwayne and Fidel hear something faint, something familiar. They stand stiffly side by side, arms outstretched, as a smoking body flies out the doorway, sweeping smoke and flames and embers along in its wake. They cry at the same moment and leap to meet it. _It’s the Chief! Of course it is! Who else would attempt it?_ He’s tucked up tight, his heels folded up neat as you please, and he is holding something crushed to his chest.

He strikes both men like a wrecking ball and everyone careens off in different directions.

Dwayne and the Chief tumble and roll like ten pins into the chain link fence, fetching up in a jumble. Dwayne levers himself out from underneath, “Whew! Chief, you’re a lot heavier than…” Dwayne’s smile of relief turns to a look of horror. The Chief is on fire! Dwayne beats at the man, not feeling his burns as he screams for Fidel to come!

Fidel and his bundle have spun out into a small bush which breaks their fall, mostly. For an awful moment Fidel thinks this body has no head but then he sees it is the Chief’s jacket covering her. He tears the jacket off and she seems OK but unconscious.

He is just venting a huge sigh of relief when he hears Dwayne’s panicked voice. His head snaps up and he leaps to his feet and races over to beat at the Chief with the jacket. It is many long moments before the flames are smothered and the Chief is just a silent smoldering shape between them.

Dwayne slumps back onto his knees, cradling his burnt hands to his chest, “Camille?” he croaks.

Fidel passes a shaky hand over his mouth. He can see charred flesh through the tattered remnants of the Chief’s clothing… and the Chief’s face… he looks away, shakes his head, answers Dwayne, “She seems OK. Let’s move him over to her.” They manage this just as the Emergency Response crews arrive. Within moments Camille and the Chief are in care. It is scary how fast people can disappear into the back of an ambulance. The flashing red lights roar off at speed.

The firemen hustle everyone out of the explosion-danger-zone. Fidel and Dwayne do a quick recon with the firemen’s help. The building is empty. No witnesses. No easy suspects. Once they are sure there is no immediate policing to do, Fidel has to drive Dwayne to the hospital because in all the commotion Dwayne forgot to report his injuries.

All the way there, Dwayne mutters over and over as he rocks over his burnt hands, “They better be all right. They just better.”

Fidel is reciting all his childhood prayers just as fast as he can because he can’t forget his brief glimpse of the Chief’s face… the blistered open flesh across his eyes… the Chief’s eyes. And Camille, so silent, so waxen. He darts a look at Dwayne who now looks like wax too.

He prays harder and drives faster.

END – part 2


	17. It Gets Under Your Skin - part 3 of 22

Part 3 of 22

He doesn’t remember anything after taking that running leap. When he tries to open his eyes, he is blind. His hands are bandaged too but he can still brush them across his face and he is relieved to feel more bandages there. He isn’t blind, just wrapped up and his eyelids probably taped shut. He puts his hands down and listens.

Yep, beeps and boops and the soft sound of rubber soles bustling productively hither and yon. That plus the smell of antiseptic and the scratchy sheet over his legs tells him he is in the hospital. Good. Best place for him. Probably. But WHY is he in the hospital? Did Camille finally crash the truck in one of those ridiculous pot holes? Wouldn’t surprise him. It’s been a long time coming, too… but if that’s all it was… why are his eyes bandaged?

He knows he is suffering from shock. Common reaction to… what? Stress? Injury? Blood loss? Bad news? Which has he suffered? Maybe his transfer came through and he’d keeled over in pure surprise?

He waits patiently (hah!) for his memory to come back. As he listens to the efficient bustle around him, he begins taking inventory of his body. He can move his arms and legs, good. He can rotate his ankles and wrists, good. He can move his head, also good. He’s not sure of his hands as they are heavily swathed… but that makes sense as they were exposed to the… to the…

… _to the FIRE! Of course, the fire! The warehouse, the smugglers, the explosion. Ah, the explosion!_ He is almost sure it had been a trap to catch him and… and… _Camille… oh, god, Camille!!_

He tries to struggle up into a sitting position but that’s pointless, isn’t it? He’s criss-crossed with tubes and wires. He can feel them entangling his efforts. Plus he can’t see! Well, if he can’t see, he can certainly bellow… and he does!

Within moments he is wrestling with someone, he doesn’t know who but he is demanding to know the condition of his Sergeant in no uncertain terms and he keeps bellowing until the sting of a needle floods him with cool calm relief and he is gone.

END – part 3


	18. It Gets Under Your Skin - part 4 of 22

Part 4 of 22

When he next swims up to consciousness, he knows he is in a different room because the sound is different. His body aches all over and he suddenly remembers some vague concern about a broken rib. He gently presses a hand against his side and feels a dull stab. His chest is wrapped. And he is still blind. As he lay there, trying to get his bearings, he suddenly realizes that he can’t feel much.

 _I must be drugged_ , he muses. _I’m ripped to the… well, pretty high, I guess. It’s like I’m wrapped up in soft wool. Figures, he snorts. Take a man who escapes from a fire and put him into a tropical hospital then wrap him up in wool! Camille will certainly have something to say about that! And, for once, I can tell her it wasn’t MY idea!_

_Camille! Damn! Why can’t I keep my mind on that ONE very important fact?! Where’s Camille?_

He opens his mouth to bellow once more then hesitates. He’d been sedated the last time he tried that tactic… so… “Hello? Is there anyone who can hear me?”

He hears a sudden rustle very close and a most welcome voice answers him, “Chief! Ah, chief! I’m so glad you’re awake!”

It is Fidel. _Thank god, now I’ll get some answers! Fidel has never failed me when it really counted._ He feels a pressure on his bare shoulder, places one of his bandaged hands over the hand he knows is there, and tries to smile.

 _There is something wrong with my face! I can’t smile!_ He reaches up with both hands but Fidel prevents this, “No, Chief, no! Don’t touch the dressings. It’s for the burns. The doctor says it will be a few more days before…” He stops abruptly.

Into the silence, Richard says very softly, “… before WHAT, Fidel?”

“Before… before the dressing can be removed to see… well, you know… to see if there’s any scarring.”

“Scarring? And my eyes? What about them?”

“Oh. Um. I think it’s just a precaution… but I don’t really know. Want me to get Dr. Johnson?” He sounds nervous, Richard thinks as his heart sinks… then buoys back up. _No sense in getting upset until I have all the facts. Besides, my injuries aren’t the most important thing._

“Where is Camille? Is she all right?” _There. THAT is the most important thing._

Fidel’s voice is glad with relief, “Oh, yes! Sorry, I should have told you that first! She’s a bit singed around the edges but she’s OK. She’s across the hall, still asleep. The doctors are keeping her under for another day or so because she hit her head. All the tests show no damage so they’re just letting her sleep for now.”

“How are you and Dwayne?”

Another pause, “Um, Dwayne’s across the hall too. He burned his hands pretty bad putting you out. You were on fire, you know. He should be…” and the subject of their conversation is suddenly heard loud and clear.

“Bondye, Chief! I’m so happy you’re awake! It’s awful borin’ in here with all these sick people. The nurses are pretty, though, so it’s not all bad.”

Richard feels his bed dip slightly and he just knows Dwayne is sitting at his side grinning at him. “Dwayne, I understand I have you to thank for whatever bit of epidermis I have left so thank you, most sincerely.”

“Aw, Chief, don’t thank me yet! Your jacket is ruined. Just the cuffs left, really. They had to cut you outta the rest of your clothes. Good thing you don’t wear synthetics, they woulda melted into you. You’re finally gonna have to go shoppin’ and get a new suit. Think about that! Somethin’ to look forward to, hey?”

Richard can tell they are trying to distract him. It must be bad, then. His face. His eyes. He trembles out a deep sigh then rallies, “What about Camille, Dwayne? Have you been in to see her?”

“Yes, Chief, and she’s sleepin’ like a baby. I don’t fancy bein’ her nurse when she wakes up, though. I know where she will want to go an’ they will try to stop her, you know.”

“Surely she won’t try to leave the hospital until she’s fully recovered and released by the doctor!”

There is another pause, a bit longer this time, “No, Chief, not leave the hospital. She’ll come here. To you. Don’t you know that?”

“Oh, well, certainly. She’ll be concerned for my welfare. As I am concerned for hers.”

“Yes, Chief. Speakin’ of which, the nurse is here with your meds. See you next time you’re awake.”

He hears the changing of an IV bag, feels fresh coolness seeping into his wrist, “But I need to make a statement! I need to continue the smuggling inves…t…” and he is gone again.

END – part 4


	19. It Gets Under Your Skin - part 5 of 22

Part 5 of 22

The NEXT next time he wakes up, he thinks he can see a vague bit of greyness through his bandages and he is VERY relieved. _So, not blind. Thank god._ The next thing he realizes is that he can hear someone breathing very close to his face and there is a slight pressure on his shoulder. He turns his head towards this presence and is rewarded by a gasp and the most welcome sound of all, “Oh, Richard! Are you awake?”

It’s Camille and she sounds scared, happy, annoyed, and relieved all at once. _Nice to hear that some things are back to normal._ “Yes, Camille, I’m awake although I don’t know for how long. There seems to be some conspiracy afoot to keep me drugged up and comatose. See any suspicious nurses lurking about?”

His attempt at humour falls into a stiff silence. He waits. She shifts a bit but doesn’t say anything. He sighs, “It’s OK, Camille. I know I’m burned. Fidel explained my facial dressings. I figured out my eyes are damaged but I’m not blind. I can see some kind of faint light right now.”

“Oh, thank god! That’s good news. Your hands and face got a bit scorched. Oddly enough, all that English wool and leather protected most of you from burns. The only real damage is two cracked ribs that you worsened by jumping us out of the building.”

“Well, I couldn’t very well let us burn up, now could I?” His mind catches at her last words, “I didn’t puncture a lung or my pericardium by jumping us out of the building, did I?”

“I don’t know. Did you?”

“I’d probably be hooked up to a lot more machines if I did. Does it look like I’ve had surgery on my chest? I know I’m wrapped but that’s probably for the ribs.”

He feels the faint sensation of her hands running back and forth, pulling up the edges of the bulky chest-wrap. It shakes him a bit but he lays quiet until she is done. “No, there’s no stitches or anything. You must be OK. Has Dr. Johnson been in to talk to you yet?”

“No, I’m asleep most of the time. Can you button-hole Paul and ask on my behalf? I know you’re not legal family but you’re the closest I’ve got and I know you can make anyone tell you anything. Will you do that for me?”

“Yes, Richard, of course I will. Oh, here’s that lurking nurse.” Her soft calming voice recedes, “I hope to have some news for you when you’re next awake.”

As he feels the familiar lassitude sweeping through him, he murmurs thickly, “If I AM blind… silver lining… no more fights about ogling…”

He’s not sure but he thinks he feels a slight pressure at the corner of his mouth and he takes the idea of her kiss down into the darkness with him. It comforts him quite a bit.

END – part 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My next post will be a day early as I'm out of province on the 24th. Back to weekly posts once I'm home again. S/P


	20. It Gets Under Your Skin - part 6 of 22

Part 6 of 22

When he next wakes, he stretches and is VERY happy to feel his body move easily at his command. _Still a bit sore but healing then. Even the ribs feel better._ As he turns his head to listen, he senses someone is near. “Hello? Is someone there?” he murmurs. He hears someone shifting in a chair but no answer is forthcoming. _Is someone here or not?_ “You may as well answer. I can hear your heartbeat.”

Idly he thinks, _ANOTHER super power! Fidel will be SO pleased!_

“It’s me.”

_Ah, it’s Camille, but why does she sound so subdued?_

“I talked to your doctor. He was VERY cooperative.”

He can’t help but smile at this, _I JUST bet he was_ , he thinks then his hands fly to his face in surprise. The dressings are gone and his smile is still there. He groans, “When did the facial dressings come off?”

“Late last night, right after your meds. I’m happy to report there will be no permanent scarring. Your dimples are safe.”

He shifts a bit then settles. _The less talk of dimples, the better!_ “What about you? How’s Dwayne?”

“Dwayne was released yesterday and is helping Fidel run the station and process the crime scene. I’m being released later today as soon as my scan shows clear and…”

He can’t help but interrupt, “Um, your hair? What about your hair?”

A bit of silence. “By wrapping me in your jacket, you spared most of me from burns. I’ll definitely need a haircut, though. I’ll be a new ‘me’ when you…” but she catches a breath and stops.

He waits, his pulse accelerating. _Ah, now we come to it_ , he thinks. When she doesn’t continue, he speaks up, “AM I blind, Camille?” He is gratified to hear he sounds completely calm.

A gasp then her hands are on him. He feels her hair, her lovely hair, brushing his cheek as she lays her head on his chest, “Oh, Richard, the doctor doesn’t know yet. I told him what you said about seeing grey light but there is something called ‘phantom sight’ where eyes see the memory of things.”

He is quiet now, his hands on her shoulders or what he assumes are her shoulders and they remain together for a long time. Her breath is warm and soothing, riffling through his exposed chest hair in a most pleasing manner. Her hand is playing with the edge of his smaller lighter chest wrapping, softly running back and forth. It is giving him shivers that he hopes aren’t noticeable.

It isn’t until her hand stills over his heart that he remembers…

… remembers a memory so old and covered over and half- forgotten and never looked at directly for ANY price! A memory that flares up as hotly as the fire he’d just escaped.

He claps a bandaged hand over his left breast but he already senses it is too late.

He is correct.

Her hushed voice is as awful as his worst fears, “Richard? What is this? Here above your heart? Is it… is it… a name?”

END – part 6


	21. It Gets Under Your Skin - part 7 of 22

Part 7 of 22

His hand is gently, firmly, inexorably pushed aside. The wash of shame burns worse than his fading injuries. _Why is it still there, faded and blurry but still brilliant on my too pale skin, a mark of major regret, a young man’s folly, a grown man’s neglect, and now a middle-aged man’s complete embarrassment?!_

His frozen lips can’t seem to form the least bit of explanation and he just KNOWS she is looking at him with appalled eyes. He hears it in her voice. As a matter of fact, he seems to hear a LOT in her voice. _Loss of sight heightens the other senses_ , his brain murmurs, maddeningly logical in a time of crisis.

He doesn’t know who he should answer, Camille or the little voice, but she jumps in and usurps the conversation. Of course she does.

“Richard? Is it a name?”

He can only nod stiffly and turn his face away. Her fingers run over and over the spot, cold fire making his heart ache beneath. He can’t stand it. He snatches at her touch, pushes her off, “Yes, it’s a name. From long ago. I don’t think about it and I don’t want to talk about it. Not now. Not ever.” Despite the resultant silence, his new-found aural skill hears a building thunder as surely as if he can see her stormy brows drawing down into fight-mode. Just before the lightning strikes but after all the hair stands up on his body, they are mercifully interrupted by the sudden clatter of his nurse’s arrival.

Richard lets out a deeply held breath as he hears Camille ushered strenuously out of the room. All during the painful changing of his dressings, he goes over and over it. _How COULD I have been so careless? How could I have forgotten it was there? The surest sign of my clueless nature… the blue mark… the name above my heart… the heart that I gave so totally… so trustingly… so disastrously!_

His self-castigation is broken by the arrival of Dr. Johnson. Which is a good thing. He needs the distraction and he needs answers. In short order he learns his ribs are mending nicely, his hands will barely show a scar, and his eyes will be checked tomorrow. The fact that he can still see shadows moving through his wrappings is a very good sign so everyone is very optimistic. There is a bit of cheering as Dwayne is now present for a brief visit. It is some time before Richard is alone once more.

He is just settling back into his pillows, running his much more lightly swathed hands over his eye bindings when he suddenly feels he has company. He stills, listens, sniffs cautiously and hesitantly mutters, “I know you’re there. I don’t owe you an explanation. I had a life before here, you know.”

A waft of indignant incredibly ambrosial air is his only answer.

“Why do you care, anyway?” he ventures, not realizing how loaded this question is. There is a deeper silence… then a quiet sob.

He stiffens, listening hard. _Oh, god! She’s crying!_ It’s something he’s only seen twice before and it had ripped his heart then! In his weakened drugged anxious state, it is unbearable now! He struggles up and casts his blindness about, “Don’t! Don’t cry! I may not be blind! We’ll know tomorrow.”

A soft cry, “I know all that. I was right outside during your little party. That’s not why I’m upset.”

“It’s not?” He’s homed in on her now, “Then why?”

Her touch on his bare chest startles him greatly. She’d snuck up on him! “Don’t DO that!” he yelps, reaching for the offending hand. The next touch is on his shoulder. He misses that hand as well. He is getting testy, “So, what’s this? A new game? ‘Sneak up on the blind man’?”

He didn’t mean for it to sound so self-pitying but he can’t help it. She is unnerving him in a completely new way. His skin that isn’t swathed or covered is tingling with an unhealthy buzz that he is sure he should not be enjoying quite so much!

“Camille?” he asks the room, his hands up in a defensive posture.

When the kiss touches the corner of his mouth he turns into it by pure reflex and is awash in an unbelievable tide of Woman. Her hair tickles his cheek and shoulder. Her hands rest lightly on his biceps, a touch so smooth and warm and feminine, not at ALL like the infamous ‘arm lock’ episode. Her breath is intimate. She smells wonderful. She feels glorious.

His hand comes up to hold her nape. His newly freed fingertips burrow down through her hair to caress the sweet skin beneath. It isn’t until her lips curve up in a smile that he realizes where his other hand is. He drops it immediately, a stuttered apology stifled unsaid as she deepens the kiss and brings his hand back up to rest once more on the soft swell of her breast.

The kiss deepens further and he loses all track of time and place.

END – part 7


	22. It Gets Under Your Skin - part 8 of 22

Part 8 of 22

The Commissioner glides through the hallways like a shark ghosting the shallows, serene in his authority and absolute right to be anywhere, at anytime, and anyplace he so chooses. And, right now, he chooses to check up on his D.I. now that the man is mostly awake and in his right mind.

The big man smiles a serene smile. His team may be fragmented and under duress but Saint-Marie continues on peacefully and orderly. _Yes, indeed. Officers Myers and Best have risen to the challenge like true brethren._ He’d overhead them giving each other a pep talk earlier today at La Kaz. He’d sat around the corner, enjoying a late breakfast, and listened to them channel their inner Poole’s as they organized their day. It had been very amusing to hear yet oddly heartening. At any rate, things are running smoothly and his island is still safe-guarded.

As he approaches his destination, he is surprised to observe officer Best guarding the doorway. _Surely DI Poole isn’t under some sort of arrest or protective custody? Have there been death threats received? If so, why was I not informed?_ The big man’s chest swells with indignation and his pace quickens. _Someone had better explain the situation and that right smartly!_

Sergeant Best notices the Commissioner’s approach. He looks briefly perturbed but a quick glance back into D.I. Poole’s room seems to decide the man about something. He lifts a finger to his lips and takes a swift two steps to halt the Commissioner’s progress.

At the older man’s bland questioning look, Sergeant Best whispers, “Ah, sir, sorry, sir, but the Chief is currently otherwise occupied. Can you wait a few minutes? Can I treat you to a coffee perhaps?”

“Young man, what is the meaning of this?” the big man rumbles (his version of a whisper), “Is D.I. Poole in some sort of difficulty? I was informed that he is recovering nicely!”

The Sergeant smiles, shakes his head, still whispering, “Not in difficulty, no. Not exactly. It’s just that he and D.S. Bordey are…” Here he pauses and looks up as he searches for just the right word, “He and Camille are negotiating a personal truce at the moment and I don’t think they’d appreciate any witnesses.”

The big man’s eyebrows raise a fraction, “Really? I must say, it’s about time. When did this start?”

Fidel checks his watch, “About 2 minutes ago and they are still going strong.”

“I see. Well, well, well, in THAT case, Sergeant, I will gladly accept your offer of coffee. Lead the way.”

As the two men retrace their steps, a question is rumbled, “Just out of curiosity, what do you estimate the odds are of a satisfactory outcome to these ‘negotiations’?”

Fidel’s voice is highly amused and not a little satisfied, “Oh, 98%... perhaps 99%, sir.”

They turn a corner. Their voices grow fainter.

“You are a most astute fellow, officer Best. Yes, it never pays to be 100% sure of ANY thing when dealing with the French.”

Fainter yet, “… or the British…”

More laughter. Then silence.

END – part 8


	23. It Gets Under Your Skin - part 9 of 22

Part 9 of 22

“Whose name is it? I can only see part of it above your bandage.” Her voice is edged like a knife.

“Sasha… from uni.” His voice is low, abashed.

“Did you love her?” The sharpest tone yet.

“Yes. Truly… deeply… madly… and foolishly. She laughed at my proposal and I don’t really blame her. What does a 22-year old boy have to offer?” he whispers, caressing unseen tresses.

“Just himself and all his potential… and I can JUST imagine that 22-year old! Yowza.” She closes her eyes, trying to conjure those green eyes in a younger man’s face. It makes her feel a trifle dizzy.

He shakes his head. _So French!_ “Well, she came from money and those families tend to marry money. It’s the way of the world. I was punching well above my weight and I knew it.”

“It’s the way of the weak and foolish but I’m sorry she broke your heart at such a TENDER age.” This last is spoken low and very close with matching touches.

“Camille, stop that! You’re taking shameless advantage of my blindness,” he says without an ounce of conviction and not a little lashing of smugness.

“I’m taking advantage of the missing suit! Poor suity! He’s toast. You’ll need a new one.”

“Farewell to a faithful and loyal servant. Do they make tropical weight suits in dark grey?”

“They will make whatever you ask for. Or else!”

“Indeed, then problem solved.” There is a pause and somehow he just knows what is coming.

“Um, can I ask how you got the tattoo?”

He sighs, “It was my one experiment with group dynamics involving alcohol. We all got tanked and staggered down to the local ink parlour. I was most sore and surprised the next morning but I truly thought SHE would be pleased.”

“And was she?”

“I never got a chance to, um, show her. My first ever ‘Big Reveal’ was preempted by the announcement of her engagement which was coincidentally preceded by my helping her with her dissertation and the subsequent completion of her education.”

“So she was only interested in your mind?”

“Sadly, yes.”

“Sadly, hooray!! What a fool! Did you ever see her again?”

“Once or twice, from a distance, all rawther stiff upper-lip and pip-pip, don’t you know. I was relegated to an amiable acquaintance and somewhat distant friend. I dropped the pair of them when I entered the Force.”

“And so you SHOULD! Good riddance. But, dearest…”

He shivers to hear that word on her lips, “Yes?”

“Why is her name still here? Why didn’t you have it removed? How can you bear to look at it?”

He chuffs a bitter laugh, “Remember who you’re talking to here. It’s me, Mr. Clueless and Hopeless. It hurt so much to GET that I couldn’t bear to think about having it removed. I just stopped looking at it and, somehow, I made myself forget.”

“But how? How can you stand to carry the name of a woman who broke your heart? How do you expect ME to look at it?” Her voice is gaining vehemence. He recognizes the signs. A fight is brewing!

“Darling, it’s just ink. If I can ignore it…” Her unexpected slap on the mark in question makes him jump.

“NON!! Did your other lovers never see it? Did you hide it? Do you wear clothes to bed too? Every single time? Do you only make love in the dark? Do you only sleep with blind women?”

She is winding herself up and there will be fisticuffs if he doesn’t defuse her right now! “Camille! Are you jealous?” is all he can think to say. He is shocked at her over-reaction. Shocked and a bit pleased but he doesn’t let that show. He doesn’t want a punch to go along with the earlier kisses. Besides, NO WAY does he want to answer her barrage of questions! Best keep her distracted and avoid that whole unsettling line of inquiry.

“Me? Jealous?” she huffs. “Of what? A bit of ink and the name of a woman I would happily strangle if she walked in here right now? Of COURSE I’m jealous!! I don’t want that on your body! That body is…”

He waits then whispers, “… is what?”

He is suddenly swamped in kisses, lovely hot little kisses, none of which are within a hand-span of his tattoo, “Mine! Mine and I don’t want that name anywhere on it! I will do everything within my power to erase her from your memory but you have to get her name off your skin! Promise me!!”

He feels her nails digging into the spot and the pain decides him absolutely, “Yes, I’ll get it removed. It’s time. WAY past time. Tattoos are unhygienic, it will put your mind at ease, and it will give me peace of mind as I can’t stand to look at myself in a mirror. With you in my life now, I want to look at myself proudly and not in shame.”

He feels a tug on his wrapping, hears a soft little clicking noise, “Camille, what was that?”

“Just a little selfie to show you if you try to back out of our agreement. It’s lovely, by the way. It will be even lovelier when your skin is pristine and immaculate once more. I want to look in the mirror and see only us. No one else.”

“Um… what mirror, may I ask?”

“Why, the mirror on the ceiling of the honeymoon suite, silly.”

Another slow kiss takes his breath away. “Ah, yes, of course. I AM silly sometimes.” All the drugs in all the hospitals in all the world could not possibly make him feel more euphoric than he is feeling right now. His arms are around the epitome of womanhood and she is…

It is at this delicate point in the negotiations that a loud ‘harrumph’ is heard and they have just enough time to separate before the Commissioner and Fidel are in the room. What with all the questions and professional business, the moment is lost but Richard can’t wait to pick up the thread of conversation at a later date.

END – part 9


	24. It Gets Under Your Skin - part 10 of 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Woops, I somehow missed a posting here last Friday and posted on the Fan Fiction site instead. Here's the missing post. Will be up to speed by this Friday and try to get more sleep in the meantime.**

Part 10 of 22

It is the next day and everyone breathes a huge sigh of relief. His sight is fine, if a bit blurry, and there will be minimal scarring. The flesh across his eyes is raw but healing thanks to an unexpected source of protection.

Dr. Johnson shakes his head as he flicks a small light across Richard’s face, “Not only did tucking your face down into your jacket help but it seems a stray lock of Sergeant Bordey’s hair took the brunt of the fire’s force. It must have flared up and then you were through the worst of it and outside. Lucky you.”

Richard squeezes Camille’s hand in silent thanks. She squeezes back. No words are necessary.

Camille speaks up, “Um, and when will his skin resume a normal appearance?”

“Oh, it looks shiny and stretched because it’s new. With time and the usual wear and tear of daily life he should look like his old self in a couple of weeks, two months at most. Really, he was most lucky.”

Richard nods, “Yes, lucky indeed. Thank you, Paul. How soon may I leave?”

As Johnson consults his charts at the foot of the bed, Richard leans over ever so slightly and murmurs to Camille, “And I’ll never be my old self again. You’ll make sure of that, won’t you?”

She leans down and gives him a quick kiss that he sees coming this time but it surprises him none the less with its over-powering intoxication, “Yes, I will. And don’t you forget it!”

He snorts, amazed at how supremely happy he feels and it has nothing to do with his vision or his scars. It has everything to do with her. Sotto voce, he huffs, “As if, Camille. As bloody if!”

The doctor returns with glad tidings, four more days of care and he is good to go.

They wait patiently for Dr. Johnson to make his notes and drop them back into the little tray at the foot of Richard’s bed. Then, a strange thing happens. Dr. Johnson simply stands there and regards the two of them with supreme satisfaction. Richard and Camille dart sideways glances to one another but neither speak as they watch Paul watch them. Finally, Richard broaches the silence, “Um, Paul? Is there something else?”

Paul beams and shrugs, “No, not really. I’m just very happy that things have reached such a joyous conclusion. Well, I’m off!” and he beetles away but not without one last smug look back into the room.

Camille sits back down at the bedside and mutters, “That was odd. Normally he’s preoccupied and a bit vague. I wonder what’s gotten into him.” Richard shrugs then none-too-covertly steers the conversation onto house-hunting and other matters of great import, such as the ‘tea cupboard’s’ location and dimensions. They pass a very pleasing afternoon in each other’s company and it isn’t until a bit later that Camille begins to notice something.

People are treating them differently. It’s subtle but she’s a trained detective. Even with a smitten Richard in the room, the signs are pretty hard to ignore. To her, the male staff are stand- offish, polite, none of the familiar joshing and gentle flirting that she’s used too. The female staff seem to sidle up and study her every move. When she leaves briefly to fetch them both a fresh coffee, she can see the ripple effect running down the hall ahead of her. She gets her first clue in the cafeteria when the cashier smiles while handing back her change. “I hear congratulations are in order,” the woman flutes, “Lucky you. We all wondered when he’d settle down. Good luck to you both.”

All the way back to his room, she bites her lip and debates whether to say anything. When she enters the room, she realizes she might not have to say anything at all. Several nurses are bustling quite energetically about his room but none of them are really working. They are studying him very closely. When Camille slams down her mugs, the women jump, give her the eye which she hands back with vitriol, and they bustle away.

As she hands him his mug, he frowns, “I think I’ve had more staff in here in the past 10 minutes than I’ve had all day! How odd. I’m getting smiles and claps on the back from the men and…”

“And a real ogling from all the women!” Camille growls. This makes him blink. “Ogling? Me? That can’t be right. Usually I’M the one getting blasted for…”

She slaps a hand down onto his side table, “No! I know ogling when I see it! I’m a veteran ogler and this is exactly…” She sees the look on his face and hushes but it’s too late. She sweeps up her mug and pretends to drink but he’s grinning and she can’t help but blush.

“I see,” he drawls. He lets her stew for several moments before he sighs and lays back onto his pillow, coffee forgotten in his hand, “Well, so much for privacy. We’ll just have to weather all the interest until I’m released and we’re back to our daily routine. Once we’re back in town, things should die down.”

“You think?” she scoffs. “Everyone out there has a cousin in Honoré. I’m surprised my own Maman…” Her cell phone rings. She sets down her mug, takes out her phone, glances at the screen and slumps. She stands and strides out the door. “Hello, Maman, to what do I owe the pleasure of a mid-day call?”

Richard’s last glimpse of her is a rolled eye over her shoulder before Camille takes herself out of earshot. Soon as Camille is safely out of the way, nurses start hovering around his door again. Fortunately for Richard, Carlton Reynolds picks that exact moment to drop in for a friendly visit with his own congratulations.

“Carlton,” Richard bleats, “am I ever glad to see you. I’ve been meaning to call. There’s something I need help with and you’re just the man I can depend upon.”

Carlton smiles and shoos the flutter of interested femininity away. “Does this have anything to do with the news that is flying up and down the hallways?”

Richard nods, “In a way. Come, sit. I’ll tell you all about it.” The two men put their heads together and plans are made.

END – part 10


	25. It Gets Under Your Skin - part 11 of 22

Part 11 of 22

Four days later, he is released from hospital and put on ‘light duties’. That means he gets to sit at his desk, order everyone about, have tea delivered every 30 minutes, wear heavy-duty sunglasses and sunblock 1000 (no sunlight AT ALL), and go home early.

Oddly enough, it suits everyone just fine.

Dwayne is heard to grouse that it isn’t much different than before and everyone laughs because it is true and no one cares. They are just so glad and relieved to be together as a team again.

Camille especially likes the ‘go home early’ part of the day. She escorts him to and from the Jeep using a huge golf umbrella that Fidel pulled out of the station’s Lost And Found. She drives and they enjoy brief talks out on his veranda, making plans and ‘courting’ (as he likes to call it) before he has to retire due to fatigue. Their definition of ‘courting’ differs QUITE a bit. _Must be the difference between French and English dictionaries_ , she thinks but she is willing to go slow as he is still healing, quite tired and shaky.

In this short lull of their lives, he researches ‘tattoo removal’ and horrifies her daily with his latest findings. Skin grafts! Tissue rejection! Up to a year for complete removal! Burns and scars and blisters! Anesthesia! Blistering and punctate bleeding! Sloughing off of crusts! Wound care! Aerosolized tissue and blood necessitating protective wear for the laser operator!

She gags at the list of atrocious details that he seems to find so fascinating. The mere thought of tattoos now makes her shiver. It is all too gruesome. She almost takes back her directive to have the tattoo removed but he is dead set to go ahead and she can’t dissuade him. Besides, she REALLY wants that name off his hide!

Oh! And, of COURSE, there is a ‘Kirby-Desai Scale’ invented by two dermatologists that assesses the potential success and number of treatments necessary for every removal. Of course there is! This bit of information seems to cheer him up quite a bit. Go figure. Must be the secret mathematician in him.

“Just think, Camille, I’ll need the Q-switched laser Ruby at 694 nanometers. It’s best for white skin and dark inks, especially blue. Thank god for the Q’s otherwise I’d be facing old-fashioned lasers that destroy surrounding tissue and leaves scars, or even acid or salt abrasion, or, worse yet, cryosurgery and excision that needs skin grafts. ALL of which are better than the historical treatments of tannic acid, lemon juice, garlic, or pigeon dung.”

Her horrified eyes take in his smile but she isn’t totally sure if he is joking or not. She checks on-line. _Nope. No joke. Pigeon dung. Oh, my good god!_

“And, do you know, 19% of Briton men have a tattoo that they wish they didn’t? Almost every one of them acquired in the same manner as mine; youthful indiscretion paired with alcohol.”

However, perhaps not unsurprisingly and unbeknownst to Camille, despite all this information - or BECAUSE of all this information - Richard has secretly decided on a clandestine course of action. He is not going to have it removed. No. He is going to get a ‘cover up’, a new darker tattoo overlaid to hide the first tattoo. Yes. A better tattoo. Also, much faster and less painful.

And WHAT cover up tattoo has he chosen, someone may ask? Why, CAMILLE, naturally. Upon consultation with his chosen artist on Guadeloupe, he will undergo 2 sessions; one for her name and one for the blood red roses that will frame it. Carlton Reynolds has agreed to be his home-care person and has already stocked up on all the supplies necessary for taking care of a large seeping wound. Ick.

Sitting out on his veranda, listening to Camille drive off and watching the sun slide slowly down into the sea, he sighs. He takes out the little sketch from his pocket and studies it carefully. Yes, ‘Camille’ and red roses. It’s perfect. He is very excited and (almost) certain it will please her, unlike that most undeserving of women whose name is now never spoken and will soon be replaced with a name that deserves all he can give.

Camille! Shout it as a battle cry!

Camille, whisper it as a prayer.

camillllle… murmur it in the night…

He folds up the sketch and re-pockets it, chastising himself for that last thought. Then he smiles rather crookedly and thinks, _What a nice surprise for when we… you know… for the first time._

END – part 11


	26. It Gets Under Your Skin - part 12 of 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, some of you may have been wondering why I needed 22 chapters to tell a simple tale about RP's past. All shall be revealed herein.   
> I DID say this story pulled together a lot of little bits and pieces that had been floating around in my 'pending' file. Now that all those bits are used up, my original idea for this story can get underway, all I needed was the beginning. Thanks again, Ponddipper, for supplying the tattoo idea for that beginning.

Part 12 of 22

One week later, he is finally well enough to travel to his first appointment. He has to adhere to a rather strict health regime in order to ready himself, NONE of which allows him any spare time for activities other than ‘courting’ (a rather sedate course of action that didn’t seem to satisfy either of them) but time enough for all THAT later!

_Patience, Richard, good things come to he who waits!_ he keeps telling himself. He hopes.

Camille takes him to the ferry and they watch each other dwindle as she is left behind. When she next sees him, he is stiff and sore and patched up with a huge crinkly dressing high on his left chest which she can hear every time he moves. As she drives him home, for once avoiding every pothole, bump, and twig on the road (she even swerves to avoid a shadow and he laughs), he tells her all the graphic gory details and asks if she wants to see the wound now that it’s temporarily stopped leaking?

She does NOT! (He knew she wouldn’t.) “I’ll see it when the dressing comes off,” she quavers then leans in to whisper, “… and when YOUR dressing comes off… and mine!”

He listens to this then sits back a bit huffily, “Honestly, Camille! You shouldn’t be propositioning me at such a time! You could set my recovery back by weeks, if not months!”

Again, she isn’t sure if he’s joking so she resumes driving at 40 kph and gets him home safely. Once seated on his veranda, she has ONE thing she needs to know RIGHT NOW! She turns to him, “When will you be healed up enough for, um, personal recreation?”

He gives her an odd half-smile, “Sex, you mean?”

She gulps and nods. Oh, yeah, she means!!

He nods sagely, “Well, we’ve decided on a slightly different medical course of action. It’s radical but we have high hopes. After my second session, it should be only a matter of 2 months or so then I’ll be good to go once Dr. Johnson gives me the ‘all clear’.”

She hitches in a breath, “And by ‘good to go’ you mean…?”

He leans forward and gives her a hard stare, “I mean ‘go’ as in ‘GO’. So, be patient, please.” He leans back, wincing as they both listen to the slightly soggy shift of his dressing.

She sits back in the deck chair and groans, “Oh, I’ll be patient, all right, but it’s going to KILL me!”

He pats her hand, “Nonsense. We waited almost two years, what’s another few months?”

She bolts to her feet and begins pacing his veranda, heat boiling off her like steam. He rather likes the effect, especially with her new haircut, all pert and flippy and sassy. She looks good enough to eat. He has to remind himself to slow his heartbeat. It really isn’t good for him to get too overwrought.

She mutters, “Months! Oh, god, months! I can’t wait that long! Can’t you give me a definite date?”

He laughs quietly, “You want a date? OK, how about six weeks after my last treatment?”

She stutters to a halt, looking wild, “Six weeks!!! Why six weeks?”

He folds his hands and says with utter conviction, “Because that is 42 days and THAT is the meaning of Life.”

She couldn’t look more confused if she tried.

He relents, “It’s a British thing, a joke really, but it’s as good a timeline as anything else. It will give me time to heal and us to get to know one another better.”

Her eyes light up and she takes a step towards him.

He holds up a hand, “We need time to learn about each other. We’re practically strangers, you and I. I trust you with my life but I don’t know anything about you; your childhood, your schooling, your likes and dislikes, your family, nothing! And you know next to nothing about me and I have a LOT of baggage. I’m really hoping you can help me with some of it so we are NOT going to rush into anything. Agreed?”

Her eyes darken and he fears there is a fight coming but she stands down, drops her gaze, and nods, “All right. You’ve always been right about everything important we’ve ever done so I have to follow your lead on this. BUT!” Her eyes leap to his and flare madly, “It’s STILL going to KILL me!!”

He chuckles, “It won’t kill you. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Besides,” he cocks his head at her and she stills, “I’m not that kind of boy. I need time, gentle wooing, and a slow hand. Surely you won’t begrudge me that?”

She gulps and takes a step back, suddenly wondering if she should plunge herself into the waves to stop her skin from crawling right off her bones! “Not that kind of boy,” she whispers, “NOT that kind of boy!”

He is extremely gratified to see her clutch her hair and heave a huge groan of frustration. _Oh, yeah, these next six weeks should be a lot of fun_ , he thinks but he is very careful to keep the smirk off his face.

END – part 12


	27. It Gets Under Your Skin - part 13 of 22

Part 13 of 22

Two weeks later and the second treatment is done. Now his chest dressing is twice as big and he is twice as sore. He plays it up for Camille’s sake but, honestly, it’s still worth it. He is VERY pleased with the results.

As he stands in front of his mirror at home, turning this way and that in the late afternoon light, he tries to image the tattoo without the redness, swelling, sloughing crusts and dribbly bits. He’s sure it will be beautiful. He thrills at her expected reaction.

Dr. Johnson insists on daily office visits during this first week and Carlton visits him daily at home after work but, all in all, it is a lot less painful than anticipated. _I do enjoy winding Camille up over it, though_ , he thinks then pauses. _When did I become such a bad boy?_ he wonders. He ponders this for several moments then shrugs. The changes in him have been so gradual, so matter-of-fact, that he can’t pinpoint the exact moment he became such a bad boy. No matter. As he carefully tapes the dressing back into place and buttons up his shirt, he chuckles. Now the count-down begins.

_Time to test her resolve,_ he muses. _Mine too but I’m surer of myself than of her. This will be interesting in so many many different ways._ He catches his own eye in the mirror and snorts, _I’m rather looking forward to the next 6 weeks and that’s so out of character! She must be rubbing off on me a bit. That can’t be a good thing!_ Yet, it feels great.

He turns in early, dropping off to sleep with a very satisfied smile on his face. 42 days to go.

Week One

The countdown does indeed begin, much to Camille’s surprise and growing resentment. Somehow, she had imagined he was just playing hard to get. As the days go by, she realizes he isn’t playing. No, not at all. She is learning something that every interested woman (and not a few men) have found out for themselves in the past. He NEVER plays. He IS hard to get. Impossible, as a matter of fact!

Dinners in well-lit busy restaurants, hours and hours of sitting and talking with lots of witnesses. She fumes. Everyone who knows him is so happy to see him recovering from his ordeal. Everyone who knows them both (and isn’t as jealous as hell) is so eager to offer their congratulations. Camille smiles until her smiler hurts but she comforts herself with the thought that day must follow day and every day that passes means she is nearer the finish line.

Walks along family beaches, hours and hours of talking with lots and LOTS of witnesses! She steams. Richard nods and often speaks to the tourists, introducing himself and welcoming people to the island. Even the Germans. She watches and wonders at the change in him. _Did I do that?_ she asks herself, hoping that she did, hoping that much bigger changes are coming for both of them.

She has started a little book she carries on her person at all times. Dates, carefully crossed off, with a BIG red circle around day #42.

And in between? Endless hours at the station doing their jobs with not a single intimate moment together. Fidel and Dwayne are very circumspect and give them their privacy as a ‘couple’ but, honestly, it does no good. There are NO private moments unless you count their shared breaks at the table where they talk some more.

They cover early childhood, elementary school, favourite books, and family holidays.

He still goes home early every day but now Fidel drives him.

It’s for her own good Richard assures her over coffees, “Camille, I can see you practically vibrating every time you look at me. I’m the walking wounded! You can’t touch me. Not yet. Please, give me time and space to heal.” He lays a dramatic hand over his breast and sighs, “Ow, it hurts so abominably.”

“Noooo,” she whines, sounding like the lost wind, all forlorn and forsaken. “Why can’t I be alone with you? Just for a few minutes. What could it hurt?” She gives him her best fake smile.

He shakes his head, “It would help if you didn’t drool when you say that, you know. No, I’m sorry but I’ve set the time-line and I’m going to follow it. It’s for the best. You’ll see. Can’t you trust me on this?”

Camille is ready with a hot retort only to realize that Fidel is now standing at Richard’s shoulder with the Jeep’s keys in his hand. _He probably thinks we’re having a loving conversation over here,_ she thinks savagely. _If only he knew!_ She flounces out of the station, muttering vile oaths under her breath as she watches Richard descend the stairs gingerly and get into the Jeep with Fidel’s help.

She throws herself down onto a bench and slumps into a pitiful ball of frustrated French womanhood and watches the Jeep drive away, carrying the only thing she really cares about anymore. She groans. _I just know this is going to kill me. Time was when only my nights and dreams were torture. Now my days are just as bad._ She watches the Jeep turn the corner and growls to herself, “Surely it will get better with time? Surely he won’t make me wait the whole 6 weeks?”

Alas and alack, it doesn’t, and he does.

END – part 13


	28. It Gets Under Your Skin - part 14 of 22

Part 14 of 22

Week Two

Another dinner! But this time with a bit of dancing! YES!! But no. He is too sore to hold tight and too tired from work to stay up late. She is back to fuming but they ARE learning about each other. They are fascinated to discover how much they really have in common.

One plus, he can only do the slow dances - which is fine by her! He has to keep reminding her not to squeeze so tight and she has to keep apologizing but she can rest her head on his shoulder and breathe in his masculine perfume and let her mind wander. He has to tell her when the music is over too. Somehow she keeps missing the cues to stop dancing.

As they sit at their table, people keep coming over to talk to him. Everyone seems to have a problem with a relative or neighbour or tradesman. Or they want his opinion of anything and everything that is currently in the news here and abroad. _Honestly,_ she thinks, _do people expect him to pronounce judgement on everything?_ Mostly, though, people are happy to see him looking so well.

Fred Hellman, the fire chief, is particularly pleased, “Yes aye, I thought we were going to need a new chief of police. You were one smoking mess when I last saw you.”

While Richard and Mr. Hellman go over the arson case together, Camille seethes, _A smoking mess, indeed! He’s smoking, period! And I can’t get even a single puff!_

Richard turns then and sees the dangerous glint in her eye and that ends the evening. He assures Mr. Hellman that all is well, sends his regards to Mrs. Hellman (the head librarian), and calls a cab.

_Serves me right_ , she fumes on the short walk home, _I have to learn to keep my thoughts to myself!_

Next is a movie! Yes! A chance to sit in the dark tucked up to his uninjured side and snuggle a bit. He won’t let her rest her hand on his knee though. Drat! However, they now know they both prefer popcorn with butter but no salt.

It is a romantic comedy that makes her laugh and him cringe. As they leave the theatre he asks, “Do women REALLY want all that glib chatter and double entendre from a man?”

She takes his arm as they walk out into the fragrant night, “Some do, I suppose. I don’t. I want whatever you can give me even if I don’t understand it.”

He smiles, “I don’t think there’s much you don’t understand except maybe for the hard sciences and that’s MY forte. You handle everything else.”

She smiles back, “I DO, don’t I? We’re quite the team, off and on the job.” Her hand steals off his arm and tries to slip around his waist. He calmly retrieves it and places it back on his arm, “No short-cuts, young lady. We still have four weeks to go and a lot more personal history to explore.”

“Oh,” she groans, “I want to explore something ELSE!”

“I know. Courage. Time for all that later.”

They have a mid-evening coffee at a local establishment and discuss their teenage years. This is a bit more painful. For both of them. Neither had a happy time of it once puberty hit but somehow the memories aren’t so bad any more. They laugh uproariously at their stories and feel closer than ever.

When the evening darkens and he is flagging, she puts him into a taxi, watches it shrink into the distance, and wonders if she can starve to death in four weeks.

The very next day

Richard mentions in passing to Dwayne that Dwayne’s cousin, Tanzi, is coming to cut his hair tonight and suddenly Camille is right in his face, looking kind of dangerous. Dwayne backs up and hustles across the room to file something that he just remembers needs filing real bad!

“What’s this?” Camille breathes slowly and carefully, like she is talking to a toddler.

Richard watches Dwayne dwindle to a safe distance and knows he’d better answer VERY carefully, “Um, well, I must keep up my professional appearance, mustn’t I?” He turns his head, brushes his fingertips through the hair at his nape. “Look at this! It’s over my collar. I can’t stand it.” When he looks back to Camille, she seems a bit distracted. “I can’t face Raul’s barber shop just yet and he doesn’t do house-calls so he’s arranged for his niece to take care of me.”

Camille had been nodding, grudgingly accepting the logic of the situation… until those last few words. Her eyes blaze up and Richard takes a step back, “Oh, DID he now? And what time is this ‘care’ due to happen, may I ask?”

“Um, well, 7 o’clock, actually. Why?”

“No reason,” she growls, stalking away.

Richard watches her coil up behind her desk, looks to Dwayne who looks back with a warning glint in his eye and a small shake of his head, then goes back to his own desk to rehash this whole conversation in his mind. The best interpretation he can come up with? Camille doesn’t like Tanzi - but surely that shouldn’t interfere with a simple haircut?

It shouldn’t. But it does.

Camille just HAPPENS to drop in that evening at precisely 7:06 pm and discovers Tanzi giving Richard a foot-soak while also clipping extremely precisely at his draped nape… and standing just a trifle too close in her humble opinion!

Richard’s natural self-preservation instincts leap to the fore before Camille can say anything to match the insane whirling motion in her eyes, “I had to job it out, Camille. I’m just too stiff and sore to fold myself up. You understand.”

“Oh, sure, I understand, all right! Well, since I’m here…” and she goes to his desk, takes up some evidence files he’s brought home, and sits down. “I’ll just keep you company and give these files some fresh eyes. Two birds with one stone. You understand.”

Richard nods, not completely understanding at all. He notices that Camille is holding her first record sheet upside down. And the next. He turns away, perplexed, meets Tanzi’s amused gaze, but says nothing. His session passes with many an interruption from Camille over whatever file she is currently reading (and now holding correctly) which incidentally stifles any words between Richard and Tanzi.

Later, when Tanzi is packing up and Richard is respectfully shorn and shod once more, he sidles up to her in the kitchen and murmurs, “I apologize for her adversarial attitude. She’s been under a lot of stress lately, running the station for me and all. She’s not herself.”

Tanzi keeps working, aware of the eyes and ears upon them, and mutters over her shoulder, “That’s fine. I get it. She’s just protecting what’s hers. I’d do the same if I were in her shoes. Lucky girl.”

“Protecting? This is my home, not hers.”

Tanzi gives a lady-like snort, “Not the home. You. She’s warning me off. She’s never forgiven me our little ‘drinks’ night, you know.” She clicks her case shut with a resolute snap.

END – part 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who is Tanzi? She is one of the many many Dwayne Myers cousins, three or four times removed. She actually appears in an unposted story I wrote last year (just checked my binder – it is the very next story in line). She wasn’t originally in this story but she wormed her way in during the editing process just a few weeks ago. Pushy pushy. Something must have drawn her out of literary hibernation – and I’m pretty sure I know what (or who) it is. Can’t say as I blame her much.


	29. It Gets Under Your Skin - part 15 of 22

**Part 15 of 22**

Richard steps back as Tanzi turns to face him, “No, I didn’t know. She’s never mentioned it.”

Tanzi nods, starts for the kitchen door, “No, she wouldn’t. It’s difficult, letting a man know how you truly feel about him. Many men use the knowledge against us, make our lives a bit of a hell.”

Richard escorts her to the door, stops to look back over his shoulder and intones low, “Jealousy doth mock the meat it feeds upon,” in dawning realization.

Tanzi faces him, “Uh-huh. She’s obviously unsure of herself. I must say, you are an odd pair. I wonder at her bravery – taking on an intellectual such as you.”

“Me? What’s wrong with me?” Richard steps outside, carrying her case for her to her car.

Tanzi snorts again, not so lady-like, “You’re too reefing smart, that’s what. I knew within 5 minutes of our little ‘drinks’ get-together that I could never hold your attention. You’d have been bored within the week and dumping me within two.”

He halts, puffing up, “I would NEVER…!”

She laughs, “I know. You would have suffered in silence while I tried desperately to please you – and it would never have worked out. You’re special. You need someone equally special to complete you. I’m not it. None of the local women are, despite repeated attempts. Not even Ms. St. Remy is ‘it’ enough for you and she can afford the best that money can buy.”

He flushes crimson, looks away, mutters, “I don’t know what you mean.”

She resumes walking to her car, “That’s OK, it’s not important. What’s important is that you’ve finally made a choice and she’s unsure of herself. You need to tell her again.”

He opens the car door for her, slides her case in, “Tell her what?”

She demurely slips in behind the wheel, “That you love her, only her, no one else, and nothing is ever going to change that. Some women…” she glances back at his house. Richard does not. He’s felt hot eyes on the back of his neck this whole time.

_Hmm_ , he thinks, _maybe loving an undercover agent isn’t the smartest move I’ve ever made_. He glances back covertly then smiles. _Maybe not the smartest move… but definitely the RIGHT move._

“Some women… and some men, they need proof. 24-carat proof. Do you understand?” Tanzi murmurs.

“Yes, I understand,” he murmurs back as he closes the door and they regard one another through her open window.

She searches his face and sees that he does indeed understand then smiles, “Good. I’ll see you in four weeks.” She starts the car then turns back to him, “Unless, of course, she hasn’t learned to cut hair or give a pedicure in the meantime.” She laughs as she pulls away. The look on his face!

After a polite pause, Richard turns back to the house. There is no sound, no indication at all that he is under surveillance. But he knows he is. It is his new normal. He walks back, opens the door, steps inside. A ringing silence fills the house. He sighs and mounts the kitchen steps, finds her working diligently at his desk.

He walks up to her and puts a hand on her shoulder, “Camille, we need to talk.” He sits, thinks, and pulls out his cell phone, “But first, I’m calling you a cab.”

She slams her fists down onto the papers in pique, “Why? Why can’t I stay for just a little bit? I’m working here! We can work together, enjoy the peace and quiet, you know…” her hand steals over his, “… like we used to?”

He slides his hand out from hers and sighs, “I DO know. What I have to tell you will NOT promote ‘peace and quiet’. Humour me, please.” He makes the call, gets a pick-up time of 5 minutes, puts down his phone… and tells her exactly what she needs to hear, verbatim, straight from his heart to hers.

Which is why, 4.5 minutes later, the cabbie pulls up to a very odd tableau; a man is dodging around outdoor furniture and the odd tree, trying to calm down an obviously distraught woman. This strange dance ends only when the woman notices the taxi. The man finally steps up to the woman and escorts her to the cab. The man says ‘good night’ and hands the cabbie the fare. The woman rides all the way back into town with both hands over her eyes. The cabbie can’t tell if she’s laughing or crying. Both, it seems. Still, it isn’t the strangest fare he’s carried.

END - part 15


	30. It Gets Under Your Skin - part 16 of 22

Part 16 of 22 

Week Three

His strength is returning slowly. He’s almost back to regular work hours. Fortunately for everyone, there seems to be a lull in the crime rate. She is sure he isn’t up to a murder investigation. She crosses her fingers. As much as she’d like to head up a murder inquiry on her own, she knows she would need him at her side and he just isn’t ready.

Another dinner. More walks on the beach. No private time. No more visits to his place - he makes that perfectly clear. In order to be comfortable with each other, they must forego any intimacy at ALL! Not even a beer on his veranda. How she treasures those memories now. But their journey of self-discovery is forging ahead by leaps and bounds. She’s almost glad they are being so circumspect except no one else believes it!

“I’m happy for you and the Chief,” Dwayne tells her during a quiet lunch, “I just hope you’re goin’ easy on him. He’s not back to full strength, you know.”

“I KNOW THAT!” she grits through clenched teeth, “He’s FINE! Don’t you worry!”

“Well, I’m just sayin’. Go easy on him.”

Fidel pats her shoulder a bit later, “You’re so good to be patient with him. It shows how much you care. The Chief is real lucky to have you, Camille.”

Her face is beginning to ache with the false smile she is forced to give, “Gee, thanks, Fidel. I’ll be sure to remind him of that whenever he loses his temper with me the next time.”

Fidel laughs, “He might lose his temper once in a while but, deep down, he loves you. We both know it.”

“Yeah,” she mutters to Fidel’s retreating back, “Deep down… I’d like some of that but I’m not getting it, am I?” She shakes it out, tries to loosen up, “Come on, girl, relax. It’s only 3 more weeks. You can do it. You’re half way there.”

That night, when Maman ALSO advises her to ‘go easy’, she finally blows up in frustration and reveals all, much to Maman’s amusement, “Well, well, well. I didn’t think he had it in him.”

“Had what?” Camille grumps.

“Such self-control and level-headedness. He’s absolutely right. You must wait.”

Camille grasps her mother’s arm in desperation, “But, Maman! I don’t WANT to wait! It’s been three weeks since his last session! Surely that’s enough time?”

Her Maman shrugs, “Who knows these things? Not me. Not you. If he says he needs six weeks then he needs six weeks. What happens if you rush him and something ruptures or tears open or there is tissue rejection? Do you want to chance that?”

Camille is horrified all over again, “No! I want him perfect and unblemished!”

Catherine leans forward and murmurs, “Then you must wait. Be a good girl for once in your life!”

“I’m ALWAYS a good girl!" Camille all but squawks in self defense, "Just because I didn’t take up with any of the blind dates doesn’t mean I’m picky!” Her mother’s eyebrows say otherwise. Camille slumps in defeat, “Well, OK, I AM picky! I picked him, a long time ago, and I’ve waited long enough. I’m going out to his place right now and…”

Her mother’s hand is iron hard on her arm, “You will NOT! You will be a good girl and go home and take a cold shower. Two if you have to. Right now!”

And much to Camille’s chagrin and despite all her arguments and threats, that’s exactly what she ends up doing. Snuggling down into bed some time later, teeth chattering, she thinks, _Maman is right. This is the best course of action. It’s working for him and it will work for me even though it’s going to kill me deader than dead!_

She falls asleep almost immediately but dreams don’t give her any rest.

Week Four

He asks her to take him on all those Saint-Marie touristy tours and trips that she’d tried so hard to make him attend before. He even sits through the lecture on the dread pirate ‘Le Clerc’ again. “You know,” he murmurs into her ear, “there’s probably enough evidence extant for someone to really find that treasure, if it exists.”

She gives him a look, “Taking up a new hobby, are you?”

He shrugs, making his dressing rustle quietly, “Oh, you know, once I’m back on my feet, I’ll need something to occupy my time if the crime rate keeps quiet.”

She squeezes his knee rather hard, “Darling, once you are back on your feet, I will have you OFF your feet and there will be more than enough to occupy your time. Don’t you worry!”

He gulps a bit, mutters, “Oh,” and glances around to see if anyone else heard this incredibly provocative statement. No one did, apparently, but it gives him the shivers none the less as he is feeling much better and wonders if maybe six weeks wasn’t a bit ambitious? But, no, his word is his bond and he still has the dressing and the ointments. Best to run the whole course and stick to his guns.

Their personal rapport is growing by leaps and bounds. At work, they are almost using ESP to communicate. Even Dwayne and Fidel have noticed it. They were a good partnership before. They are a GREAT partnership now. _How much better can we get,_ he wonders? It is thrilling to feel their bond strengthen day by day.

“See?” he says as the week comes to an end and they are closing up the station, “It’s working. We’re getting a crash course in each other and it is helping us in every aspect of our lives.”

“Yeah,” she scoffs, “Every aspect except one! Can’t I get even one little kiss?”

He frowns at her, “Why? Do you think it will help?”

She turns to him eagerly, “It would help me a LOT!”

He hesitates. _A kiss? Hmm._ He remembers her kisses in his hospital room. Granted, he’d been very weak and injured and drugged but those kisses had burned their way down his nerve endings and he wasn’t so sure they’d feel any less potent now. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea…” he begins.

“Why not? I’ve been VERY good for four weeks now and you’re almost better. Can’t we give it a try?”

END – part 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Completely off-topic yet of vital importance: Google 'Netflix Bridgerton series' then celebrate with a calming cuppa. I got volume 1 yesterday, looking forward to a good weekend read. S/P


	31. It Gets Under Your Skin - part 17 of 22

Part 17 of 22

He can feel himself weakening. She’s so beautiful and she’s so close and he’s so…

Before he can say a word, she reads him correctly and leans in quickly to steal a kiss. Just a tiny kiss. A mere brushing of the lips. A simple peck. A buss. Nothing special. More of a reward than anything else…

As soon as their lips touch, she feels a galvanic shock run up her jaw and down her neck to spread like wildfire throughout her entire body. She catches him up in a powerful embrace that shocks them both… her in surprise and him in pain.

He yowls, clutches at his chest, wide eyes looking into hers with mute accusation, “Christ! That hurt!”

She steps back in hot guilt. He hardly ever swears! She hopes she hasn’t injured him beyond repair!

He sees the look in her eyes and grimaces afresh. It DID hurt but it isn’t the tattoo. It is the tape holding his dressing in place. The tape had pulled hard on his chest hair and that had hurt like blazes! But best to let her think it is the tattoo so he gives her betrayed eyes and she apologizes over and over again until he is satisfied that she gets the message.

“I think,” he huffs in hurt tones “that we’d better stay the course. I wouldn’t want to set myself back health-wise. Depending on how badly I’m re-injured, we might have to start all over again. Maybe another six weeks, perhaps more!”

She gasps at this, making an instant resolution to keep her distance and her hands to herself. _ANOTHER six weeks?? Maybe more??!! No! Anything but that!_ “Right, you’re right!” she tells him and puts him into another taxi and goes home for yet another round of cold showers.

It has become her nightly ritual.

Week Five

Cold showers. Lots of them. First thing in the morning, at lunch-time, and every evening as many times as she can stand it. For the first time ever, she asks Maman for a wool blanket just so she can warm up enough to fall asleep but it is kicked off every morning and the cold water only helps so much.

Finally, mid-week, on a golden lavender night of gentle breezes after a day of being cooped up with him at the station with no relief in sight, she walks to his beach and watches from the trees. _This must be what a jungle cat feels like as it watches its dinner_ , she thinks, half-mad with longing.

She can see him, quietly reading out on his veranda, the last rays of light gilding him beautifully. She slips out of the trees and almost makes it all the way to his steps but he spots her and stands up, holding his book in front of himself like a shield.

“Camille? What do you want?”

She pants, hot flashes running over her skin, “You know what I want,” she groans. She takes a step up.

He backs up, “Camille, we talked about this. We have to wait. We’re almost done.”

She takes another step up, “No, YOU talked about this and I AM done! I can’t take another day of this torture. Surely one week won’t matter? Please!”

He holds up a palm, eyes shut in matching frustration, “Camille, no. This is hard on me too but we agreed. Can’t you wait? We’ve come so far and we’ve learned so much. I’m sure this is the right thing to do. Remember, good things come to she who waits.”

Her temper flares, “Yeah? How about ‘things coming in small packages’? How do I know if you can deliver? I’m going crazy here and you don’t care! Can’t I at least examine the goods? Just to assure myself I’m getting the prize I hope I am?”

He gives her a shocked look (and he IS a bit shocked - he hadn’t thought she was capable of such crudity), “Camille, you WOUND me! Again! Isn’t it enough I saved your life and broke a rib for you? That I’ve mutilated myself for you? Now you insult my body? Sight unseen? Shame on you!” Despite his outrage, he loves the look on her face as his words penetrate past her hormones and lodge in her reason. His next words drop like stones into still water, “I forbid you to enter my home. Calm down.”

Her words are just as hushed, “You forget, I’ve seen SOME of you. I have that selfie.”

He smirks, “Worn it out yet? Made any 8 by 10’s? Sleep with it under your pillow?”

She whips out her phone and makes a big show of deleting a photo, “THERE! GONE!” Wild horses would not drag the truth out of her! She HAS almost worn it out. She DOES sleep with it under her pillow.

He holds out a hand, “Let me see that.”

She backs up, phone to her chest, “Oh, no, you don’t! I don’t trust you. I’m going home now for yet another cold shower! If I survive these next few days, all I can say is YOU’D BETTER BE WORTH IT!!” This last is shouted over her shoulder as she marches back the way she came.

He watches her storm off, difficult to do in shifting sand but she is managing it. A woman of many talents, including almost cracking his resolve. He’d come SO close to taking her into his arms. SO close! But he knows it will all be worth it. _Only one week to go then we shall see, won’t we?_

“Small packages, my eye!” he mutters as he resettles in his chair and picks up his book, “You’re in for a surprise, Missy. Two surprises, in fact!” After a moment’s thought, he adds, “Perhaps three.”

_Yes, this will take some thought. How EXACTLY does one propose?_

END – part 17


	32. It Gets Under Your Skin - part 18 of 22

Part 18 of 22 

Week Six

He’s almost as good as new. He takes up full hours at the station and now there is very little time for ‘courting’ except for hastily snatched lunches at La Kaz. There, Maman is very solicitous of his care and fusses over him like a mother hen. Camille seethes… yeah, more like a grand-mother hen!

_Oh, Maman, you don’t fool ME in the slightest! It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if you haven’t already got a calendar going!_

Just as Camille thinks this, her mother smiles slyly from behind the bar and holds up a lovely calendar, riffles through it (about 9 months’ worth, actually) and taps a date with great satisfaction. Camille’s cheeks flame and she has to go for a walk on the beach, leaving her lunch unfinished.

Also, he’s been determined to sew up the smuggling case and put his fire-bomb experts behind bars, which he does quite handily. He’s disappointed in the time taken to solve the case but everyone tells him he can’t be expected to catch the crooks from a hospital bed and, so, is mollified.

Everyone is pleased with the arrests, especially the Commissioner. One of the criminals is a certain businessman who has been a thorn in the Commissioner’s side for years! Poole earns yet another secret gold star in the ‘Big Book of Selwyn Patterson’.

Privately, Fidel whispers to Camille that the Chief had solved a much tougher case from his sick-bed last year but THEN he hadn’t had the added distraction of wooing the love of his life. Camille chokes on her coffee and chases Fidel out of the station, much to Dwayne’s amusement.

“C’mon, Camille!” Dwayne laughs, “Don’t be so touchy! Anyone would think you an’ the Chief aren’t gettin’ on at all, the way you act!”

Fidel peeks in from the veranda doorway and adds cheekily, “Yes, Camille, why are you so grumpy? Isn’t the Chief soothing your nerves at all?”

Camille bites her tongue and goes for yet another long walk through town. _Oh, the agony! When will this week end? How much longer will he make me suffer?_

Turns out, he makes her suffer the full term. After all, a man’s word is his bond.

Her only consolation this never-ending week? He is finally up to going to the barbershop on his own. She shadows him all the way to the shop and watches from across the street, wondering at the mimed hilarity that she sees through the bay window. _What on earth can all those old men find so hilarious about Richard’s haircut,_ she wonders? She knows she can’t ask him. He would know immediately that she’d been spying on him. He IS the consummate detective, after all!

Inside ‘Raul’s Barbershop’ 

Richard is being inundated with ribald comments and laughter by several senior citizens who really should know better! He blushes under their attention and darts a glance in the mirror to Raul who meets his eye with a shrug that says, _People talk! Sorry, but what can I do?_

Richard frowns back with a very stern suggestion, _You can tell them to mind their manners! AND their business!_

Raul nods and addresses the amused gaggle of geezers over his shoulder, “Gentlemen, gentlemen! Our esteemed Chief of Police is no velvet-cheeked youngster you can embarrass at your leisure. Please show some respect!”

“Respect?” one old party gargles to his cronies, “From what I hear, he gets a lot more than that!” His compatriots agree whole-heartedly.

“Way I hear it,” old party #2 chortles, “He’s got women parading in and out of his little house! He should install a rotating door!” This amuses everyone, even Raul who tries to keep a straight face.

Richard pipes up, half-rising out of the chair, “Who says this, exactly? I want names!”

Raul settles his customer back down with gentle shoulder pats, “Now, now, Chief, I’m sure Milton is just shooting off his mouth, aren’t you, Milton?” Raul pierces Milton with a gimlet eye in the mirror and Milton subsides (he’s heard unexpected steel in the Chief’s voice).

“Yeah, yeah,” Milton back tracks, “I’m just teasin’. Everyone knows you’re the perfect gentleman, Chief. It’s all in good fun. We ain’t had such doin’s in town over a bachelor for a long time. Besides, Raul here doesn’t want to be related too close to the cops, do you, Raul? They might find out about…”

Raul jumps right in, “That’s enough out of YOU, you old crock! Keep this up and you will no longer be welcome to cool your heels in my shop. Do we understand each other?”

Milton flicks a nervous glance to his buddies and everyone nods, “Yeah, Raul, I get you.”

Silence reigns briefly before old crock #3 speaks up thoughtfully, “So, Chief, no luck for other island women? You’ve truly got your heart set on that hell-cat up there on the hill?” Richard is just swelling up for a furious defense of his chosen one when the old man continues, “Well, you’re a braver man than most of the bloods here. I’ve heard plenty of talk about Camille Bordey but not one of them had the nerve to actually try anythin’ with her. You took everyone by surprise, yes aye.”

Richard watches the man in the mirror, “I did? How?”

The oldster sighs and shifts slightly, old bones tire easily, “Oh, you know. You were like an exotic critter when you come here. We hardly understood you and no one knew what to think of you. You stayin’ was a real shock. Then, all this sudden interest in Ms. Bordey, well… it just surprised us, is all.”

Now Richard is the focus of three sets of rheumy but sharp eyes. He meets their reflected gaze with suspicion, certain that more ribaldry is forthcoming.

Milton speaks up again, “Not that we blame you one little bit. Good luck to you, if you can manage it. She’s a bit of an exotic critter in her own right, isn’t she?” His companions nod in agreement and silence settles once more.

Raul huffs, “Well, I’m sure the Chief welcomes your sage advice seeing as none of you ever managed to tame a woman of your own. Real experts, you lot are!”

The first old man, Edgar, speaks up, “Oh, we’re experts a’right! We’re three experts on what to do wrong with women! Why, the advice we could hand out! We oughta write a book!”

Raul is just about to shoo the old men out of his shop when he feels a cool hand on his wrist. The Chief is sitting up, suddenly alert in the chair.

“Advice?” the Chief asks, “What advice? I’m sure Raul won’t mind if you amuse us with stories from your sordid pasts, do you Raul?”

Raul shrugs again, hiding a secret smile, _So, even being the Chief of Police isn’t adequate protection!_ He continues his barbering and listens with growing mirth as the old men begin regaling them with the most outrageous stories of missed opportunities, bad luck, and out and out ridiculous behaviour (both male and female). The session finishes in much mutual laughter and the Chief leaves the shop with a lighter step.

As Raul sweeps up, he happens to glance out his window and sees a slight shadow duck into deeper shadow across the street as the Chief makes his way along the sidewalk, cell phone in hand. Raul nods and continues with his routine but he thinks to himself, _Yes, aye, not even the Chief of Police is safe. Not from women in general… and not from HER in particular._

Edgar is also watching, “He’s a goner, all right,” he chuckles and all the men nod in agreement.

Raul then pivots to face Milton, hands on hips, “And the Chief already knows about that cigar Tanzi brings me when she goes on vacation to visit our Reeta! So you can just stop trying to make trouble for me, you old fart!”

Everyone bursts out cackling and the Chief is forgotten.

Except for the shadow across the road that has to give up once the Chief climbs into his cab.

END – part 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another surprise appearance by people that weren't in my original draft. Odd.


	33. It Gets Under Your Skin - part 19 of 22

Part 19 of 22

Day 42

She is on his door-step at PRECISELY 6:00 am, pounding on his door, waking him out of a sound sleep and probably waking the neighbours in the next cove as well!

He leans groggily onto his kitchen door, scrubbing at his sleepy face, and tells her what she does NOT want to hear, “Go away! You’re too early. The count-down ends at 4:20 pm!” He can feel the door vibrating under his hands. Will it withstand her assault? What a way to wake up!

“What? WHY?!!” is her anguished response as the drumming stops.

“Because that is when the count-down started. Didn’t you pay attention to the time?”

“That was six WEEKS ago! How can you be so pig-headed?! Let me in!!” The pounding resumes, doubles, trebles, amping up.

He grins evilly, relishing her anguish and need, “Little swine NEVER let the wolf in. You know that!” She continues pounding on the door but he is already gone, checking all other points of entry. He is secure. He might as well begin his morning routine as his blood is humming now. Yes, indeed, a Bordey alarm-clock certainly gets your morning off to a rousing start.

She has to give up in total frustration to the sound of his shower. Insult added to injury!! She shouts up at his bathroom window, “You’re a SWINE, all right! Your true nature is showing now, D.I. Poole!”

His quiet laughter haunts her all the way back to the truck.

As she throws herself back into the Defender, she shakes her fists and roars, “OH! I am SO going to KILL that MAN!!” Her furious mind begins conjuring all manner of ways of killing said man and she feels light-headed suddenly. She takes a deep calming breath, pushes all such thoughts out of her head, starts up the truck, and slowly makes her way back into town vowing eternal vengeance by every means possible. And maybe by some means impossible.

A bit later

When he comes into work, she is nowhere to be seen although the Defender is parked down below. “Where’s Camille?” he asks Fidel, a bit surprised and maybe (just maybe) a bit worried.

Fidel casts a cautious glance to Dwayne who shakes his head in response. Fidel turns back to his boss, “We don’t rightly know, sir. She stormed in here, mad as a hatter and quiet as death, and told us to lose her cell phone number unless there is a murder. Did you two have a fight or something?”

“Or something,” Richard admits then spends most of the day straightening his desk and putting his papers in order. At precisely 4:00 pm he stands up and says, “I’m going home. Can one of you drive me? I’m off tomorrow so you will need the truck for your shift.”

“Sure thing, Chief,” Dwayne says. “I’ll take you. You ready?”

“Oh, I’m MORE than ready,” is the quick response.

“Hey, Chief, you forgot your briefcase!” Dwayne calls as he sees the leather case seemingly forgotten atop his boss’ desk.

Richard halts briefly, looks back, then continues on his way to the door, saying quietly, “No, I didn’t. It’s the last thing I’ll need tonight … unless everything goes pear-shaped. In which case,” he looks to Fidel, “I might be back for it a bit later. I really hope not but you never know.”

“Oh, OK.” The two officers give each other a look. Who knows what he means half the time?

When Dwayne pulls up to the little beach house, he sees Camille just disappearing around the corner of the wrap-around veranda. He turns a puzzled look to Richard, “Hey, Chief, Camille is here! What’s she up to, do ya think?”

“No idea. I’ll go ask her. See you in two days.” Richard gets out of the truck.

Dwayne leans over to say out the side window, “Does she need a lift back to town?”

Richard answers quickly, “No, no, I don’t believe so, at least not just yet. She and I have some business to attend to. We’ll call a cab, if needs be. Good day, Dwayne."

Dwayne waits a beat, shrugs, smiles, and drives off.

Richard waits at the foot of the steps, listening to Dwayne drive away. When all is quiet, he looks up and there she is, standing stiff and still, almost vibrating. She looks clear and sharp and VERY THERE.

“What time is it?” she grinds out.

He looks at his watch, “4:18 pm.”

“Two minutes to go, then. Where’s your briefcase? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you here without it.”

“I’ve never been here without it. Tonight is special.” He is growing taut with expectation.

Her eyes are eating him up, “Yes. Tonight is special.”

They stand none too patiently and wait. When his alarm pings, her eyebrows rise and she smirks.

He has the grace to blush, “All right! So I set the alarm! Do you blame me?”

She comes down one step, holds out a possessive hand, “I blame you for everything! Every single thing. Now, come here.”

END – part 19


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